


Toil and Trouble

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Cat Dean, Cat Puns, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Dreams, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Familiar Dean, Familiars, Female Friendship, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Girls Kissing, Hazmat Suits, Kissing, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Possession, Possessive Dean, Psychic Bond, Romantic Fluff, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, Spells & Enchantments, Telepathy, Witchcraft, Witches, inadevertent mutual psychic masturbation, it's really hard to tag this specific thing, plaid, spells, there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 70,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What’s the best way to infiltrate a coven? Be a witch. What does a modern witch need these days…</p><p>Dean is going to be your familiar.  He really wants to be <i>a dog.</i>  He's not going to be a dog, and it works out way better and messier than either of you planned.</p><p>For Lexie’s July Challenge, 40. “If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to pounce on you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SaenaLife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaenaLife/gifts), [deandoesthingstome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deandoesthingstome/gifts).



“You’ll be the witch,” Dean says, nodding once like it’s the plainest truth in the room.

“What? No-”

“You know more witch lore and you’ve done more spell work than either of us, Y/N. You should be the witch.”  He pans his hands out flat, as though these are his many facty facts and nods again, looking right at you.

“Sam the Sensible,” you turn away from Dean, leaning at his brother imploringly. “I’m begging you, be the voice of reason.  You should be the witch right?”

“No.  Dean’s right.  You should.”

“Mother fucker!” you snap, and grouch a throaty _ohkkhh_ in disgust.  

“And you should be her familiar,” he says to Dean.

“Yes! YES!” Dean claps. “I can _be_ there, Y/N! Yes, okay, how the hell do we do that?” He’s bouncy now, riled up for the start and you can’t believe your ears.

“Wait! NO! Do I really have to tell you this? No. Because I can see what’s coming.”  You point at the ground in emphasis and say to Sam “He will need to be able to shape shift, when he wants and _on command_.  That’s some serious shit Sam and I’m not willing to play around with that.  Seriously.”

“It’s a direct link to the _grand coven_ , Y/N,” Sam tells you.  “You know how many witches we’ve killed? Out of all the witches we’ve met?  Three.  Fucking _three_.  It’s worth it.  And we can call in Cas if it goes fishy.”

“ _ **If?!**_ You don’t even know if Cas can _wrangle_ witchcraft!” you squawk.  

Sam stands and shares one of those goddamn looks with Dean before leaving the kitchen.  

“Are you getting ingredients?! You are fucking getting ingredients aren’t you, you little shit.  Dean?!” But Dean’s out the door already too, and you’re left to listen to your own blood echo in the empty kitchen.  “I don’t wanna be a witch!! They suck!!”

…

You sit at your laptop, scrolling through anything you can think of, reading too fast, stabbing the arrow keys, looking for evidence to prove to Sam that this is a bad idea.  You’d rather walk into the coven alone, in a Fed suit, on a broomstick, than have Dean take such a risk.

Meanwhile Dean’s beside you at his own laptop and completely indifferent to your mood.

He’s looking up images of dogs.  Great big fuck off guard dogs like Arab Mastiffs and Dobermans.  “This one,” he turns his screen, “that’s me.”  

You look at the picture, furious expression fixed on your face, and look at the animal.  It is him, in a way; a proud, dark tan Rhodesian Ridgeback, neatly muscular and alert.  Look at those sweet eyes.  Such a dedicated, intelligent looking- NO.

“No! Dean-”

“These,” Sam interrupts, shoving pictures of a crow and a rat under your nose, “look at these.”

“Oh! God! No!” Dean baulks. “No. _This_ ,” he says, and actually puts his laptop on top of your own.

“What- Why are you shoving these animals in my face?  You’re the one changing, Dean, you choose.”

“No, _you_ choose,” Sam says. He sits next to you and you look at him with your You should know better glare, which he ignores.

“You’re going to be making a contract with Dean,” Sam says calmly, pointing at the spell he’s rewritten.  “You’re asking him to be your familiar for a period and he’s accepting, but whatever animal is in your mind is part of the contract that he accepts.  So you need to think of the animal it will be - the spell will seek out whatever suits you best, but you need to direct it to something useful.  And I think a bird or something small is ideal.  They’ve got agility, speed-”

“Mites,” Dean spits. “Yelch! Not a chance.”  He snatches the pages away and scrunches them up for rubbish.  “Four legs _only_ ,” he points at you.

“I’m gonna think of a chicken,” you threaten, “so I can tell you to buck off.”

“ _Thiiiiis_ ,” he rapidly taps the Ridgeback’s picture and you frown your most disappointed glare, then frown harder.  It really should be making much more of an impact.

“How long should we make the contract?” Sam asks, inspecting the text.

“A week?” Dean offers. “We can do it again if we need to.”

“No, I might give you a different animal the next time-”

“We’ll get it done in a week,” Sam says firmly, still scanning.

“No, look. Stop.” You stand up, and they finally, finally look at you.  You lick your lips and take a breath, but you don’t even know where to start any more, so you huff it out and step away from the table.

Dean gets up, saying “Y/N, hey if-”

“What if it sticks, Dean? What if you can’t un-animal yourself?  What if you can’t control it like you need to? You’ll be out of action for who knows how long. Or if it’s triggered by things like being startled? What if someone captures you while you’re a dog and you can’t undog? You don’t know how to _be_ a dog, or fight like a dog!  What if our connection is used against us? Or we can’t control that either?”

“All o’that just takes practise, Y/N,” he says, calm and firm. “We can make the contract longer and take a few days to work together-”

“It’s a bond, Dean,” you grab a fistfull of his sleeve. “An emotional and cognitive bond.  Our pain and fear and needs will overlap, and we’re mashing this up with all sorts of language.” You glance accusingly at Sam, who’s been tweaking the recipe for a half hour or so.  “Dean, what if it doesn’t expire and we’re connected forever, you serving me? Can you see why I don’t like this?” You turn to face him fully, grabbing his other wrist.  “You cannot be bound to anyone like this Dean.  You can’t be at the mercy of what might happen to me.”

You stare into his eyes, unwilling to break away if it means he’ll give in, and don’t respond when you feel his fingertips brush your forearm as you squeeze his bones, trying to remind him of the reality of this.

He takes a steady breath and says “Okay,” and you deflate in relief.  “It’s risky, but-”

“Dean!”

“But I _trust you_ ,” he says, returning the intensity of your gaze now and taking your shoulder in his hand.  “There are ways out of this sort of stuff, and I get that you’re worried, but here’s the thing.  We have to get into that coven, uninvited, and none of us are witches.  We will fix and manage whatever we have to, if and when it happens.”

You don’t care.  The job can wait. There’ll be other windows.  For a moment, a terrible selfish moment, you think that the few lives lost as a result will be worth it; Dean’ll make up for it in the future. You don’t even realise how your head minutely shakes no, long blinks of denial that this is the only way.  It’s too great a risk.

“I know you’ll look after me,” he reiterates, squeezing your shoulder.  “Somebody has to look after you.”

You try to sigh in concession, because against the two of them you’re really only making noise, but you can’t even relax enough for that.  As usual, your plucky crew is going to mash it up till it looks like success.  

“HoooooDean…”  You hold onto the back of your head and walk away, pacing out your nerves and trying to be okay.  

“What if someone figures out your itchy spot and incapacitates you?”

Dean takes his own deep breath then, Sam echoing, and looks at you, determined and patient.  He waits for you to stop moving, watches you put your hands on your hips with a chest full of apprehension and a face full of _You’d better convince me you bastard._

Slowly his mouth pulls sideways and he does a little shake of the head.  

“You’ll be the only one who knows where it is,” he twitches a nod, tucks his bottom lip for a second.  “Promise.”

Talk about flimsy.

Dean turns from you, leaning over his laptop to waken the screen before heading to the kitchen, leaving you to consider what’s coming.  Sam goes back to rewriting the spell for a non-witch.

“If I’m such the expert on witches and witch lore, why is no one listening to me?”

“We’re listening,” Sam says.  “We are.  And we get your concern, Y/N.  But we’ve never had as good an opportunity as this.  We have to take the risk.”

The dog on the screen stands in front of its master, noble and patient, waiting for an instruction or sign.  It looks loyal, ready, like a weapon.

“If this were a movie,” you mutter, “this would be the beginning of the disaster.”

…

In the kitchen, you drink Sam’s potion from the paper cup, wincing at the burn and grit, and pass it across the small table to Dean. He drinks, frowning curiously at the flavour and returns it for your second sip, strangely much sweeter than the first. Finally Dean drinks what’s left, somehow staying quiet as he works his teeth clean with his tongue and cheeks.

Over the burning hair and herbs - althea, mugwort, star anise, knotweed, mace, eyebright - you hold each other’s hands and watch the words be spoken.

“Rogo te mecum esse,” you say, trying to imagine the right dog as you speak, “ego audite,” - _dog dog dog_ \- “protector tuus sum,” - _big brown strong dog_ \- “et te reservabunt,” - _full grown Rhodesian ridgeback_ \- “et ego ero vobis maleficus” - _scary and strong_ \- “septem diebus.”

Dean takes up the spell and you try to focus on his words without worry. “Ego sum apud te,” - _Please be a big strong dog_ \- “ego protector tuus sum,” - _to cover all your inexperience as a familiar_ \- “arguam te audiunt,” - _God who are we kidding_ \- “ego veniam quo vocas,” - _you may as well be a kitten out there_ \- “ego sum qui pythones,” - _please just be okay_ \- “tu mihi maleficus septem diebus.”

You both lean over and blow out the fire, rolling your eyes at the drama of it all.  Frikken spells.

The smoke willows it’s way to the ceiling, sharp and acrid, making you cough a little, but you’re not sure if you should release your hold or what.  

You think maybe Dean shimmers a little and you squint at him.

“Y/N?” he says and suddenly the air between you seems to fold.  Neither of you move, yet he’s closer, like you’re inside his aura or something, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed a change at all.

“Dean?” you check.  He blinks rapidly, pulling on your hands a little, then frowns and shakes his head like _No… nope. Gone._

“Anything?”

He looks at Sam whose gaze is dashing between you both, watching for any sign of a connection.  He tries, “I now pronounce you familiar and witch,” and you scowl at his poor humour.

“It’d be witch and familiar anyway,” you tell him, and ask Dean “Okay… well… do you think you can change?”

He drops your hands, steps back, and takes a deep breath. Readying himself, he licks his lips and looks at the floor, filling his mind with what he wants to be.  He pauses, waiting.  

Nothing.

You come around the table and watch as he shifts his feet a little and tries again, fists closed and visualising juicy bones, chasing cars, wagging tails, being shorter… you and Sam focus with him, squinting your cheeks high, thinking _dog dog dog_.  Still nothing.

Dean smiles at you a bit, starting to feel silly and he catches you trying not to smile back.  

“Rrrrrrr,” he growls, trying it on, and you snigger, both of you reining it in when Sam sighs emphatically.

“Sit!” you command.

Dean starts at you, flashes a glare.  Sam watches.  Nothing.

You and Dean laugh in relief.  “Sorry! I thought maybe-”

“No, s’a good idea!” He smiles, puts his hands on his hips.  “Worth trying.”

“H-yeah,” you grin, and mock grumpy.  “Bad dog.”

Dean puts the back of his hand to his mouth, and a single high giggle bounces out before a light sucking sound pulls on your ears and he disappears.  

A cat sits in his place.

The cat looks down at its paw, turns it over to stare at the pad, dumbfounded.  Unbalanced, he tips over onto his side.

Upon impact, Dean reappears.  A gentle _whump_ sound shifts the air with a “-the fuck” following. He looks up at you, astonished and pale faced, then coughs - _*ssnk!*_ \- and he’s gone again.  The cat flaps and twists to right itself, legs splayed, paws grabbing at the floor for stability.  He freezes.  He makes an unimpressed “raowwwwwwl” then sneezes - * _tthmp!*_ \- and Dean lands on his elbows, belly to the tiles.

“No,” you breathe.

“Sh-t,” whispers Sam.

“Y/N? What the hell?” Dean pulls his knees around so he can sit on his feet and looks at his hands again.

“Dean! I am So. Sorry,” you plead and kneel before him.

“Y/N? Am I a fucking cat?” He turns his hands over like they’ll provide some evidence. “What happened to the dog?!”

“I thought of the dog! I did!”

Slowly he looks up at you. “You just also happened to think of a cat.” He seems to be getting angry. “Y/N,” he says, terse and slow, “I’m goddamn allergic to cats.”

“I know,” you wince. “I’m sorry! You probably won’t be allergic to yourself though!”

“Y/N!” He snaps. “I’m I supposed to b-” * _Sshnk!*_ “MI-OWOW?!”

“I know!” you cry.

There he is; a shorthaired cat, teetering on long legs. He’s roughly the same colour as his hair, green-eyed and scowling at you like you’ve used the wrong bowl for his fish.

“Meow! Meowo **wrow** eowow? **Row** eowow meeowow…” Dean seems to realise he’s lecturing you, and stops. His ears go flat and he glares, back bristling a little in annoyance.

“You are a very handsome cat,” you say hopefully.

His glare slides up to Sam, who has a hand over his mouth, and back to you, full of disdain.

You hesitate, but reach out to pat him a little. He shrinks away and hisses, still angry about his condition.  You pull back.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper privately, surprised at how painful it is to feel his disappointment.

Looking into his eyes creates some sort of cone of silence and you’re not sure what you actually see, but you know what you feel.  It’s like being able to hear flavours as he tries to calm down and accept the situation.

You reach out again and he watches your hand suspiciously.  Still scowling, he allows your fingers on his head. Then you lightly drag them down between his ears and his eyes slip shut. He sits up straight, pushing into your palm, and you rub back and forth around his head. He’s terribly smooth, the silken coat downright luxurious to the touch.

Soon he’s leaning into your palm enough that he’s almost folded over on himself and slinks onto the ground, batting at your hand till it’s rubbing his chest, fingers tripping up under his chin. He stretches long and seems to have forgiven you enough for this. For the moment.

Sam sighs and tsks in annoyance before heading back out to the library. “Who can control a fucking cat?”

…

You leave Dean be for about an hour or so and wait in your room, trying to memorise a few word-only spells that might be handy - things that unlock or reveal other spells, something that cloaks a door, things you can use on the run.  And nothing that will bind you to the craft with, you know, fluids.  That’s a whole other layer you’ve always been cautious of.

Heading for the library, you start calling Dean, hoping he’s forgiven you enough to come to you.  Looking through the bookshelves feels silly - and you’re hoping you don’t have a petulant kitten on your hands - it’s just that you’re sure he’s in the room.  You stand in the centre, beginning to look at the gaps between the books, and hear the light pad of paws and brush of fur behind you.

You turn, and see Dean walking towards you along the shelf top of a bookcase.  He’s almost eye level, winding his way between the artefacts like a velvet ribbon. He tucks himself to sit on the end, blinking calmly.

“You seem comfortable,” you say.

“Miow.”

Smug. “You feel like showing off?”

He lands on the floor as well as any cat you’ve seen, runs through the chairs, then at the wall of books opposite to leap high, pushing off the spines, hitting the floor again with a practised slip, then racing around to jump onto the table, down to the floor and back up to the shelf where he began.

You pout and pinch your lips, trying not to smile at how pleased he is with himself.  

“That looked… natural,” you offer coolly.

He licks his paw and slowly drags it over his head, because he’s a cool cat, and you smirk at him, almost laugh.

“Hey I was thinking, we’re probably going to have to figure out how I’ll hold you.”

He ducks his head a little, looking you up and down.

“I mean, you’re full sized, but my shoulders aren’t very broad and we can try that, but I’m prolly gunna hafta,” you awkwardly gesture your arms in a kind of cupping way to suggested carrying him.

He paws the air a bit, tapping the edge of the shelf to draw you near.  Thinking he means Go for it, you collect him under the armpits and his front legs stick out straight, his face full of nope.  

“Uh, okay, sorry, hang on.”  You pull him close and lay him against your chest, then scoop your other arm under him.  He tenses, laying against you like a sphynx, ears flat and wide-eyed as he glares at your double-chinned effort to see him.  Maybe it’s because your hand is under his butt.  Whatever.  He’s not happy.

You put him back the way he came.  He starts pawing the air again, apparently trying to work out an approach onto your body, hesitant and shuffling.  

“Hang on,” you say and scoop under his hips with your left arm, his weight settling in your elbow as you lay him against you again, his paws almost over your shoulder due to his size.  He’s looking behind you and you unconsciously run your hand down his back, ears to tail, feeling him ripple into it.

He looks down at the hold, a little surprised, flexing his paws to feel the comfort and noting how his hips feel secure, legs and all tucked into the crook of your arm.  

Dean looks at you, blinking calmly.  He’s quite heavy, and while he has good balance, he still wobbles a little in your hold when you move and you find it’s like holding a bowl of water in a way, making you cup just below his shoulders to hold him close.  You run your fingers up and down the side of his throat a bit.  Instantly he closes his eyes and after a few seconds he purrs, looking for all the world like he’s smiling.  It takes everything you have, _everything,_ to not snuggle him into your neck.

You hold him there for as long as it feels polite, then gently kneel.  He wakes, and lets you hold him around the chest to lower him to the floor.  

“How you going with the manning up?”

Dean stands before you and waits, then walks a little on the spot and momentarily, he appears in full form.  You’d forgotten how big he would be and pop up in surprise, feeling his hands catch your arms before you’ve opened your eyes again.

“Woah-hey,” he says, and huffs a shy smile at you before letting you go, making sure you’re stable.

“Good reflexes,” you breathe, conscious of your closeness.

“Cat-like,” he says, with finger-guns.  He licks his lips, tight-mouthed and bouncy and you raise your eyebrows to hear what it is he’s thinking.  “It’s so awesome,” he begins breathlessly.  “The spaces I can get into!  And I don’t shift when I sneeze anymore, thank fuck coz it’s frikken dusty in some o’those nooks.  But the stretch! And just, it feels so fast! And bendy!” he explains, working his arms into streamlined shapes as he squints through the memories.  “And it’s easy! Like not completely effortless, but to just _go!”_ he shakes his head.  “Cats are awesome!”

“Right!” you lean back in surprise. “You’ve changed your tune.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “gotta make the most o’ things right?”

You lose yourself for a moment, thanking your all your luck that you get to work with a man who can God Damned Deal with being an occasional cat for a week to kill witches, and that you have the privilege of being his friend.

“Hey,” he smirks playfully, “if you keep staring at me like that, I’m gonna pounce on you.”

You feel hot all over and begin a face, something that says _Not appropriate,_ but you hear Sam.  He’s talking to you before he’s even in the room.  “Guys, how ready are you?”

“Uh, not,” you stammer, both of you stepping back a bit.

“They’ve got a thing on tomorrow tonight,” he puffs, “in Denver.” Sam looks at you expectantly.

“What, like a social?”

“Yeah, at a freaking bar in Denver, tomorrow night.”

“No, no,” you look at Dean too, backing away with your hands crisscrossing to ward off this terrible idea. “No, we were going to go in on a little daylight coven meet and greet, or just blow up the head witch if we found her, right? That’s enough, we don’t need a milling crowd and uncontrollable-”

“We’ll be fine,” Dean nods at Sam. He steps towards you and takes your wrist. “We will be fine and we’re going. We’re just gonna cram is all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, you stuffed that up, and yet Dean is coping with the outcome better than you. All you have to do now is be a witch, infiltrate a coven, hide your feelings, throw some deadly magic and protect Dean.

If you arch your back a little, or maybe put your hands on your hips, then you come close to feeling normal, but this get up is simply not you. You flop your arms, wishing you were better at role-playing beyond pants suits.

“Is this… witchy?” you ask, looking down at yourself. “I was going to go with the purple-curtain look but there’s no way that kinda person’s gonna have him as a familiar-”

“Aw, thanks boss. Good decision though, that suits you much better,” Dean winks.

You almost smile, feel your chest tighten in response, but say “Don’t wink at me,” plain and quiet.

Dean is taken aback for a moment, sort of twitches a thought with his brow. You both know that familiars can’t disobey a direct instruction, but this is the first you’ve given.  And it isn’t just that you turned down the playful flirting you often share, it’s the feeling of your dominance being exercised.

You shrug an apologetic smile but don’t take it back because if you don’t curtail his conduct towards you he’s going to detect, quite quickly, what it normally does to you. You don’t know how to quash that yet and you can’t afford for him to know. You want to protect him from that kind of mess.

Dean nods, and you hear a sort of _Fair’nough, you-boss_ from his side of the room.  While you’re frowning curiously about that, he’s wondering whether he’s chosen this feeling or if it’s assigned too.

“I think modern witches look like anyone,” Sam offers. “You look fine,” he nods at your black halter neck top and burgundy leather pants. It’s unusually sexy for you, and you’re still surprised you ever had them in your stuff.  Did you do a Halloween as Faith the Slayer one year?

“What’s he gonna wear?” you ask and Sam gives Dean an objective once over, frowning thoughtfully about whether it’s an issue.

“I’ll wear this, thank you very much,” Dean huffs.

“You look like a hunter,” Sam shakes his head. “At least change your shirt.”

“To what?”

“I dunno, something Copperfieldy?”

“No, fucking-”

“Well, what does a familiar wear?” Sam heaves and the two of them stop at your gasp.

“What?” Dean glares, his suspicion for your gasps almost automatic now.

You look at him aghast, sorry, almost afraid for him. You remove your fingers from your lips just long enough to peep “A collar.”

Dean’s back seems to straighten of its own accord.  He stares into the middle distance and it’s like his eyes zoom out while his brain pulls in.

Seconds pass before he snaps out of it. “I’m comfortable,” he says and nods like he should be on your car’s back dash, eyes closed. “I’m comfortable.”

You can feel how slippery his hold is on that idea.  His emotions are becoming more and more apparent, almost shared inside you.  Sam looks at you, wondering if you can do anything to help him.

Dean frowns some more. “I’m comfortable.”

“Oh my god,” you groan and wipe your face with both hands.

“Okay… Well…” Sam moves slowly, “I gotta get supplies so I better go… get my brother… a cat collar.”

“Oh hey, hey,” Dean asks painfully, searching for the words. “Dude, could you- just no bells or-”

“Don’t worry,” Sam pats the air with a hand, thinking hard. “I'm… _empathising_.”

Once Sam’s gone, Dean stands by the table and taps his fingertips on the surface.  “You should come sit down, practise doing this thing.”

He waits for you, watching you try to stand tall and look at him, and collects your arm once you’re near enough.  “Hey, I can feel the anxiety pour offa you.  Just- what’s going on?”

He’s already so much better at this than you, whether he’s trying or not, and his concern tunnels into your chest.  The feedback loop between you and Dean feels like it’s spinning out of control, like the wheel is wobbling more as your spokes come off. Every time you feel a wave of worry flare out you throw a blanket over it, covering your feelings for him, and it muffles the communication.  It’s like you keep choking yourself on your chain.

Dumb silence surrounds you while you think and feel and won’t feel and keep things. He tugs on your arm to make you look at him so he can get a clear signal.  You try to give him something, if only to delay what’s seeming more and more inevitable.

“It’s such a responsibility,” you manage, your voice half the strength you expected. “You seem so vulnerable.  I’m your keeper, Dean, and I- I’m not strong enough, I don’t have enough power in the witch world.  And… this-”

“I’m not afraid of being tied to you, Y/N,” he says firmly, and you can feel a low note of _you’regoodokay_ under the words.  “You don’t need to worry about that.  It doesn’t feel strange.  At all.”

“Really?” you ask, a little surprised.

“No,” he says, wondering about it himself. “Not even a bit.  Feels the same.”

“That… doesn’t sound right.  I think the spell is tricking you.”

Dean’s _whatwhy?_ tickles at your neck, making you grab at your earlobe as you step back and fake a thoughtful face, badly.  “I’ve gotta-” You look at the door and shake your head.  You know you can’t hide your discomfort from him so just find a non-lie to escape.  “I need a minute,” you exhale.

He lets you go and you get, _receive,_ a mashup of _okay what’s- I’m here what’s wrong comeback_ and you cannot get out of the kitchen quick enough.

You walk-run to your room, hot with shame and frustration, puffing your cheeks to stave off the tears.  

You’re letting him down.  He’s open and rolling with the program and you’re all speed traps and roundabouts.

In your room you sift through your stupid box of Things That Might be Handy and find what you’re looking for:  An old strap of brown leather, from your grunge days, lies in the corner of the box.  It’s about a quarter-inch wide, well worn, with a silver buckle and loop. 

As you untangle it from the other crap, you shake your head at yourself.  You’ve let yourself get sidelined by your witchcraft shortcomings - the massive gap between what you can do and what you know you should be taking in there.  You’re letting _perfect_ be the enemy of _good_.  And it doesn’t even need to be good, it just needs to be good enough.  

On top of that, the least you can do is focus on your fraternal care for him for crap’s sake and you are fucking not, you decide, **not** going to take him to a goddamn witch shindig in your state - amateur, flinching and reluctant.  It distracting and leaves him too vulnerable.  

Somewhere in here is a pentagram pendant too, something gifted by a well-meaning person in thanks for your work.  It’s trinkety, about half an inch across, and perfect for the job.

In the war room, you dig out the engraving pen and sit down to etch Dean’s name and your phone number into the back of the little medallion.  Fucked if you were going to have him rubbed raw by a new piece-of-shit collar from some hokey _pet_ store in town.  You don’t have the time or patience to visit a bigger kink-o-rama in Denver.  This will do.

Striding towards his room, you feel your determination take root.  You don’t really know how much you care for Dean, only that you’ve been sitting on more-than-friends, not-just-buddies, certainly-not-brotherly feelings since day one and you’re pretty sure, if you let yourself, you’ll feel a lot more than that.  Things you’d never want to share with him, such as attraction and full-blown lust.  You don’t know, when you stop restraining your thoughts, whether he’ll see that too, or how it will feel, but you have to unguard yourself and unleash your thinking.  He must be able to connect with you.  You’ll just have to be open and wear the outcome no matter what:  Anything else puts him in danger.

 _He is your familiar, your responsibility,_ you say to yourself, _yours to protect._   You march down the corridors, mentally coaching yourself as you head for his room. _He’s depending on you and you will arm yourself with a fucking bomb of words, **something** , to take out the head witch and get this job done.  You will keep him safe.  You are his witch-_

“Y/N,” you pull up short at the last corner before Dean’s room.  He’s come to find you, barefoot and tense with concern.  “Why is your mind yelling?”

You hold out the leather strap, waiting for him to collect it. _Nofamiliarofmineis_ \- “You’re not wearing a _pet_ collar,” you bite out, glaring at his hands.  He unravels the old thing and you almost slap him at the clarity of his opinion:   _Nirvana grunge, pfft, sheep_.

“Hey,” you point at him, “they were revolutionary.”

He blinks at your reaction and looks at the strap again.

“It’s not charmed, or anything,” you say.  “Come on, I need to see about some stuff.”

Dean catches up beside you, checking the fit of the strap.  “What even is this?” he asks.

“It’s a necklace, apparently, but I don’t think anyone saw it like that when I wore it.”

Back in your room, he’s done up the strap too snug and you loosen the collar by a notch while he sits in the chair.  “I want to check what you need when you’re like this.”  You tuck two fingers under the leather to check the fit and ignore how he looks up at you, his eyes following you like you’re a red dot.  

“Would you cat-up please? Just to-”  A quick _*sssnk!*_ and he’s sitting in the chair, same expression as before, the leather collar curiously fitted to his neck and not sitting round his shoulders.  Okay then.

“Comfortable?” You gauge the fit again, and Dean rubs his cheek on the back of your hand.  It seems such an affectionate gesture, and you tilt your head _really?_ at him.  He doesn’t respond, but there’s a feeling of comfort, like a hum amplified. 

When you take your hand away he put a paw up and pushes at the thick edge of the leather, testing it a bit.  

“What’re you doing?”

He pushes some more and his paw slips in between the collar and his neck.  He pauses, thinking.  He tries straightening his leg and only succeeds in getting the collar into the ‘armpit’ of his front leg.  He glares at the floor.

You wait, seeing if he can problem solve this one for himself…

_Lilhelp_

“Sorry!” you jump to assist, “I wasn’t sure if…”

He’s still scowling, huffy and embarrassed, flapping you away as soon as the collar is righted so he can have another go.  This time he lays on his belly, gets both paws on the collar and wiggles his head, pulling it through the hoop, and it bounces onto the floor.  He sits up, and looks down at the thing, then up at you, inflating with pride.

You sigh.  “You have to wear it.”

_Notalways._

“If you take it off now it won’t resize with you when you man-up.”

_Know._

“You’re nude.”

He pulls his head back, affronted, and looks down at himself.   _Not!_   you hear him fluster.   _Majestic!_

“For crap’s sake,” you groan and pick up the collar once more, slipping it over his head and trying not to laugh as his eyelids are pulled back - _wahrrhg!_  “Wear it to get used to it, and for just in case.  You can’t be a collarless cat.”

Dean huffs a little sigh out his nose, defeated and shirty, and waits for you to change the subject.

You start digging around your room for anything that might look like feline fun.

He goes for a walk around the space, considering all your things from this new height.  He inspects the bin with little twitchy sniffs, gives your shoes a wide berth, and nudges the cuff of a sleeve hanging out of a drawer.  He loops back, nudging under it twice more before sitting back on his haunches and batting at it a few times.  You watch him play, smacking it with a claw-empty 1-2 rhythm, and then, when he plays 1-2-duck! he sees you watching him and freezes for maybe half a second before rolling onto the ground and pretending nothing happened.  You try not to watch while you search.

Around the other side of the bed, he contents himself with clawing the clothes hamper -

“Ffft! Hey! Knock it off!”  

_Hmmph._

\- and your duffle bag.  He then comes to sit by the leg of the chair, his tail long behind him, the last few inches flip-flopping side to side.

He looks over his shoulder surreptitiously; he has an eye on his tail.

He turns away, feigning sleepy, and then looks back casually, eyeing the flit-flitting tip…  pa-dum! - he’s pounced on it, ears flat and paws broad, before fumbling the catch, batting and pretending to bite, and rolling onto his back with his tail between his teeth, chomp-chomping on it till you hear a high squeak - _AAch!_ \- and he squalls himself onto his stomach.

You watch with your hand over your mouth, trying to make no noise at all.

Now flat against the ground, he decides he’s sporting for prey, and wriggles himself into a streamlined form, bunching up his back legs and focusing on nothing in particular, ready to attack, and then-

The mirror.  It’s full length and propped against the wall. His ears twitch, turn out a little, and his head pops up.  He walks his front paws back so he can sit up and have a proper look at himself.  He tucks his wrists together and, you’re pretty sure, puffs his chest, tilting his head to consider the proportions, watches his tail slink about.  He pads over to the chair leg and wraps himself around it, working a figure-8 between the legs, always with an eye on his reflection as he moves.

It’s fair enough, you figure.  It’s a lot to take in, being a cat.  But still.   _I mean come on.  Dean._

_Dean._

“Dean!”

 _Whogoesthere!_  He’s grabs the floor and glares in all directions.

“Dean,” you laugh, “come on, you goofball.  Come up here. I wanna check something else.”

He goes from dork to glide in about two steps and hops up on the bed like gravity sucks him to the spot.  You sit on the comforter and pat a spot saying “Lay down?” and he flops long, watching your hands.  “I don’t have anything like a cat toy, but I suppose a mirror will be enough right?”   _  
_

 _You try being cat,_ he scowls.

With two fingers, you spread the dense fur of on his chest, searching around for any sign of the anti-possession tattoo.  He closes his eyes and lets you fuss, enjoying you threading your fingers through his fur, and eventually you find it, a petite little stamp just below his throat.  Then you spend some time revelling in the treat it is to pet a lovely cat.  You work your fingertips along his throat, up around his ear, thumb knuckle over the cheek, and drag your hand long down his flank.  He stretches out for you and you create a circuit light on his belly, massaging his chest and stroking firmly from forehead to tail.  In seconds the tip of his tongue is poking out and he’s purring like his Baby.

And now that you’ve thrown back the cloak on your own thoughts, you’re not monitoring yourself when you start thinking _Yyyyyyeah yeah that’s nice… aaaaaw y’like that yeah… that’s nice innit my beautiful bo-_

You stop and pull back.

Dean lays there and breathes deeply, eventually lifting his head, blinking _What’s that?_

“Nothing,” you twitch, and hope being a cat makes it harder for him to hear you.  “Though you probably shouldn’t stay there.”

He gazes at you and pats the bed with his tail tip.

“No, Dean, come on.  Man up and help me with this hunt.”

“Rowwww-” _*thmp!*_ “-uuuuh!” he groans, now draped over the corner of your bed, arms and legs hanging off the edges.  “Cat is _better.”_

“Prepared is best,” you say from the doorway.  “Library time I think.”

You don’t wait for him and head up the corridor by yourself.  He takes long enough that you’ve only just begun to roll your eyes at his defiance when he sprints past at full pelt, just a streak of fur, collar tinkling down the corridor.  Cheeky little shit.

By the time Sam’s returned Dean’s back to full size and he heaves a sigh of relief at the collar.  “They were all too small,” Sam says, “but I did get you this.”

Sam puts a toy on the counter before Dean, and the three of you look at it.  It’s a ball, coloured like a bee, with a flower connected by a short cord.  It’s unevenly weighted so that it’s inclined to randomly roll, flapping the flower as it tinkles about.

 _A toy?!_ He’s disgusted and swipes at it, a gesture that’s very close to swatting to make it move.  Dean glares at Sam like he can’t believe how patronising he can be.

You throw the toy onto the ground and Dean flinches, interrupts himself by going to pounce on it, and pulls himself back at the last minute to glare at you too. _How could you?_

“What? You’re allowed to have fun,” you shrug.  “Fun’s fun!  Give it a go.”

It’s not like his expressions have ever been mysterious, but being able to hear him too is just perfect. _What? No, I won’t-  I’m not going to… just… Okay, **because** he was being nice._

He huffs shortly and looks at the little thing that’s finally come to rest on the tiles.  He jumps and - _*Sssnk!*_ \- hits the ground in cat form, right on the toy, and rips into it. You and Sam smile at each other and sit at the table.  After a few seconds Dean pauses with teeth and all four paws on the bee, looking at you while he thinks _Uh, could you not watch?_

“Sorry!” you ask, and nudge Sam’s leg to get his attention.  “So, killing this witch.  It’s going to take a lot of killing.”

“Yeah, tell me what you think of this…”

Sam lays out the multi-faceted attack he’s drafted for you, and finds he has to whittle it back a bit with Dean maybe not having thumbs, even if you think he’ll be quite deft as a cat.  

After a while you look across the kitchen.  Dean’s laying beside the toy, legs stretched out with it an inch beyond his reach, his tail flapping idly on the tiles.  He gets up and walks away and for some cheeky reason your brain says _I can see your balls_.

There‘s the slightest little scoff, and he keeps walking, whiskers high.  Sam tilts his head curiously as he watches, because Dean seems to be strutting his butt from side to side.  

_Yep mylil furry nuts._

…

Bringing dinner into the library, you find Dean as a cat, sitting on the table right next to a text Sam’s reading.  He’s tapping a particular passage and looking at Sam who’s saying “Yeah, I know, we’re using it.”

He doesn’t have the cognitive link you have with Dean, but it doesn’t make any difference.  The mind reading is implicit.

“Yeah, I got it, it’s going in, but we gotta change the wording- I- _stop tapping!”_  Sam drops his hands on the table and scowls at Dean, who blinks back.

Sam sighs through his nose, heaves his shoulders and goes back to reading, glaring implied.

Dean puts his paw on Sam’s hand, and waits.

Sam blinks sternly and pulses his jaw.  “Dean, I swear to God, I’m not above putting you outside.”

Dean turns his head away - _I don’t know what you mean_ \- and Sam frowns back, unsure if Dean’s smiling at him or not.  After a moment, Sam rolls his eyes and Dean gets up to leave.  He headbutts Sam’s chin hard enough to knock him back with a _Jesus!_ and cuts his path back across the book so his tail curls along Sam’s neck and over his face, butt under his nose.  “Couldya- just-  oh fuck off.”

You’re already tucking into a burger, grinning at Sam as Dean’s collar ching-ching-chings while he trots across the tabletop to you.  “So, between annoying your brother and licking your balls, what have you found Fuzzbutt?” you ask him.

“Miow,” he says, offended.  He walks over to another text and proudly sits beside it.  

You get up and head over to look, running your finger over the lines, ignoring him batting your hand when it gets near.  On the third pass though you bat back, pushing him with an open palm to play, rolling his head over a few times, but you lose focus when you start thinking about the text a little more.

Once he gets bored of your distraction, while your empty gaze is fixed on the paper, he drops himself onto the page, rolling over and hoping for a pat.

 _One’s power is stronger_ , it reads, _when one’s familiar is in their familial form_.  This time you look at him  He’s blinking up at you and you rub your fingertips behind his cheek and ears, running into a long pat down his length.  “Yeah, okay,” you sigh.  “Y’gonna want hands for this burger.”

Dean doesn’t cat again in the hours before bed.  The goodnights between you are cursory and polite, small smiles and quiet names.  Your dreaming is constant, warm, and although it feels vivid it’s not tiring.  Like a television channel broadcasting a fish tank, calming and steady, it’s just Dean, in his bed, asleep.  When you wake you’re on the left side of your bed and he’s on the right side of his, with a wall between you, and neither of you think it peculiar.

…

The drive is an unusually long 6 hours since Dean stops more often than ever, restless for movement.  The first time, he heads around the back of the service station to privately cat around the scrub and abandoned cars.  You see him sprint into the woods nearby and stare at the spot till he reappears, jogging, looking around for witnesses before he transforms.

The second time, though, Dean just goes to the other side of the car, waits for a quiet moment, and changes so he can claw at a tree trunk and pounce on a grasshopper.

The trip is quieter than usual, for Sam anyway.  So much of Dean’s inner monologue is a sanguine, rolling train of thought, especially while he drives. A gentle hubbub of lyrics, short clauses and nouns flit by, and you find it’s so calming, a perfect companion soundtrack to the scenery rolling by.  Similarly, he’s tuned into what you’re thinking, your focus on your task, but also he’s watching the road and it feels like you; a steady path, something to follow.

Sometimes, Dean thinks a little louder or clearer, maybe a _Yeah I know_ or _Here it is_ in response to something he’s caught from you.  Sam watches you wordlessly pass items over the seat, expressions reacting even when you’re not looking at each other, and reminds himself it’s only for a while. And Dean, of course, reads his expression too.

“Y/N thinks you should cut your hair,” he says.

“No I don’t!” you yelp at Dean and lean forward to grab the seat. “I don’t Sam, I think your hair is fine. Dean’s shit-stirring.”

Sam laughs, appreciating the gesture.

“He’s just jealous it looks so good on you,” you add, flicking Dean’s ear. “He could grow it long but then he’d have to get blonde tips to make it work.”

“Ugh I’m gonna throw up.” Dean shudders all over, and you shiver in sympathy.

During the last stop, you meet Dean on the hidden side of the car.  He’s stretching out his front legs, quivering at the reach, and curling his back.

“I present to you; the letter ‘n’,” you joke, sitting on the bluestone to lean against the wheel.

Dean climbs into your lap and lays his paws high on your shoulder, his body long against your chest and stomach.  His whiskers tickle your neck and you can hear him think so clearly it’s like he’s whispering in your ear.  _We’re gonna be fine._

“I know,” you say absently.  Sam’s intel is promising but aspects are still vague.  You know there will be one important witch there at least, but the discussions he’d found used a bunch of inconsistent code words, so it was either messy or there’s stuff you didn’t know, including the possibility of other powerful witches.  You’ve also been thinking about the bigger animals that might be there, or bouncers, all sorts of threats-

 _Hey, I’m not gonna cat unless I have to,_ he assures you, dragging his cheek along your neck, a gesture you assume is more cat than Dean.

You start stroking his back while you think.  He flexes his paws and pushes a little, seeking it out. 

“Only if small and quick is better, okay?”  

You stroke stops at his neck, sort of holding the skin there like a mother cat would.  “You’re my responsibility,” you say, suddenly feeling every spark of intensity you’ve suppressed since you first held him in your arms.  You wrap your hold around his body and tell him with all the authority the contract affords,  “Don’t take any unnecessary risks.  No status battles, no spats.  Be conservative.”  You jolt your hug a little to emphasise your words and unconsciously rub your cheek over his ear.  “Don’t let anyone get their hands on you when you’re like this okay? No one. Only me.”

 _Only you,_ he repeats.   _I won’t, Y/N.  Promise.  We got this._

You pull back and look over him like you’re checking off every hair on his head for attendance.  “I know we know a lot about witchcraft, but _do_ you have any idea how much we are going in short?”

His blink says _Yeah I know._ Then he ducks his head under your jaw, pushing his brow against you.  You tilt to give him room, taking up a steady rhythmic pat again. After a while he starts to purr, heavy and thrumming, the vibration warming and delicious through your neck and chest. It isn’t until Sam slams the car door that you think to stop.

Dean’s reluctant to get off - _No. More_ \- and you start saying “Come on, off you go. Dean, I’m gonna drive if you don’t shake a leg.”  But he’s unbothered, content in your arms and clinging to drag out the pit stop.

You roll onto your knees, coming away from the car, and pick him up by the scruff of the neck. Turning his face towards yours, you shift to crouch with an elbow on your knee. “Come on, don’t make me get the spray bottle.”

Suddenly Dean appears, his bulk filling out the space before you, lifting you upright, before you even feel the gravel on your knees.  He stands there, you dangling from your arm now around his neck, his hands fast on your waist.

“You’re better at this than you think you are,” he says firmly.

Your mind trips up on everything - the closeness, the surprise, the tenor of his voice in real space, his warmth against you, the affection you’ve been feeding and the attraction right behind it - and after a few seconds you pump your jaw, trying to talk, slowly cranking out  “Yeah- _thanks-_ _Yes._ Okay… Good cat.”

You pat his chest and nod, stepping back. His fingers linger on your waist and, for a moment, it’s still while you look at each other.

_**BEEEEP!** _

Sam’s had enough of pit stops. “Come on, let’s go!” he gripes from behind the glass. You kick the stones and shuffle off, and get on with getting to Denver.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are a hunter, not a witch. But my goodness you are an awesome witch. It’s showtime for you and Fuzzbutt.

Standing before the threshold, you fiddle with your earlobe so you won’t fiddle with your fitted top.  Dean is by your side, looking less himself and more like his slightly urbane twin brother.  He stands close, and tugs at your elbow when he’s had enough of your fidgeting.

“This end of town seems so has-been,” you mutter.  “You sure Sam-”

“Password.”

You glance at Dean wondering if he heard it too.  “Uuuh, ‘scuse me?”

“What’s the password?” says a tight voice beyond the heavy door.

You knock a knuckle on the sliding door viewer.  It slips open and two blue eyes with Pinterest-worthy makeup blink at you, and then blink a few more times at Dean.

“I’m here for the coven meeting,” you say.

The eyes dash between you both again, thinking.  “What- what coven?”

“How about you open the door and you can test me yourself,” you offer, businesslike and civil.

The eyes, after more blinking, cannot seem to imagine what you mean.  She pulls back, thinks some more, and opens the door.

“Abra Cadabra,” you say lightly.

“That’s the password!” she beams.

“…Yey!”

_What the fuuuuuuu-_

_Jesus_

You and Dean almost have a shared thoughts now, your telepathy becoming near seemless during the car trip.  Half the time you don’t even notice who says what, they’re just words in your heads.

You follow the pretty lady down a corridor, concerned that there is no music at the club, and not another soul to see.  Past the cloak room and through a door, you come upon an open room and an unmanned bar.  It’s dank, rundown, dusty in the corners, everything painted matt black.  The stout stools have their vinyl worn off the corners and the fittings are all stainless steel.  You can’t even tell what kind of clientele the place might draw, it’s so dull.  Regardless, it’s cold and strangely empty, except for the eight women milling around a cluster of the knee high stools and tables in the far corner.  You follow the door lady, and after a while you can see movement in the corners, and pillows- no, cats.  It’s the witches and their cats, and Dean tugs on your sleeve to stall your approach.

“They’re cats,” he says seriously.

“Yeah I know-”

“No, they’re regular cats,” he frowns at you.  He’s cautious and annoyed, hanging behind as you join the group.   

Even though it’s a Saturday night, no one is dressed for a nightclub.  You’re the only one not in pull-on light-blue denim or a draping velvet skirt.  Very soon you’re sure that it’s not because they’ve been a coven for a long time and have let themselves go.

The only empty seat is around the other side and it’s so old that you sink crookedly into the foam.  Dean sinks too, and rests his elbows on his knees to help balance himself as a cat slinks its way across his shin. For a moment you wonder if he’s going to atomise under the sheer force of continuous sneeze-induced shifting, before you hear _All good - antihistamines. Eh?_

You look sideways at him and get a little frowny nod.   _I’m on it, Y/N,_ and he taps his temple.

_You dork-_

Your neighbour, sitting by herself, makes friendly eye-contact with you.  She’s a brunette cuddling a foot-tall triangle in her lap.  It’s made of orange-spotted calico cotton, tightly stuffed with black button eyes and a set of embroidered whiskers.

“Leanne, you could’ve brought Barry,” the woman on your left speaks to her, ignoring your arrival and jumping straight into friendly conversation.

“Really?  You think a budgie would make a good familiar?” Leanne says, unsure.  She unconsciously drags her hand over the stuffed craft-cat’s pointy head.  “I just figured, I say hello to old Stoppy every night, he’s as good as family!”  She smiles and jerks her shoulders up and down, happily resigned to be different.

“Yeah, but it’s a bit awkward,” says the other.  “Isn’t it heavy?”

“Why is it heavy?” you ask, jumping in with a friendly tone.

“He’s my door stopper,” Leanne explains confidently.  “Did you bring Puddles, Julia?”

“Yeah, he’s over there,” she points behind Leanne, but on closer inspection that cat isn’t hers.  “Or over there… I think I’ve lost- Oh there he is!”  She sees him beyond Dean and all four of you turn, just in time to see Puddles cleaning his arse.  

Dean turns back to you, disgusted, and both women notice him properly.

“Oh,” says Julia. “Hello.”  She sits a little taller and you try not to frown.  “What brings you here?”

“Please, move into the circle,” Leanne offers.  She leans over to trap Stoppy between her knees and bust and thump-thump-thumps her stool sideways.

Dean nods respectfully and scoots forward as you apologise.  “I’m sorry, my name’s Y/N and this is Dean.”

“Dean, are you a witch?” Julia wonders delicately.

“Did you want to be a witch?” Leanne asks, leaning over her Stoppy.

“No,” you answer for him. “He’s my fa-riend.”  You clear your throat, feeling tight and protective already and you notice Dean’s hand clench on his thigh as he doesn’t pat your arm.

“I’m just here to give Y/N a little support,” he says.

Upon the sound of his voice - warm, low and rolling out oh so masculine across the large space - the other conversations are distracted.  The chatter gently halts and they all turn to look at him and the woman from out of town.

Very carefully, you pinch your face into a little smile, but your thoughts are clear and biting.   _You can all fuck the fuck off._

Dean frowns at you for a second and you think _What? Bunch of predatory housewives._

_It’s weird that I’m here, is all._

_Oh my god-_ but you pull up, realising everyone is watching you make faces at each other.  

The low growl of a cat echoes around the room and you glance over to the dance floor where a tabby and a tortoise shell are play-fighting.

Dean clears his throat and, after a few toothy smiles, you think to repeat “I’m Y/N, this is Dean.  We just heard there was a new coven starting and since we’re new to the area, and, well…  You gotta find your gals right?”

“Yes!” Leanne says brightly.  “Really, I think a coven is just another word for a girl’s club!”

“No! It’s like a Mother Earth thing!” says another.

“Claudia!” says her neighbour.  “Not everything has to do with cycles!”

“Yes it does! Name one thing that isn’t influenced by a season or cycle!”

“Forks.”

“Oh fuck off Linda.” She smacks her friend’s leg and they giggle at each other.

“No, but, don’t you think, like, plants can get energy from us?” says her other neighbour, the door lady, with her cat napping on her knees.  “I want to investigate herbology.  Which is a witch thing, right?”

Discussion breaks out again, but before it can hit full volume a strong voice breaks through the rest. “Okay _ladies!_  LAY-dies.  Girls.  Okay, so let me start the night.  Hi, I’m Helen,” she leans toward you and Dean from her seat.  “And you heard about this on Facebook?”

“Yeah, sorta,” you hesitate.  “A friend of a friend. Who’s a witch.  She knows, uh, Trisna?”

Helen’s pause is only in her breath, not even a blink, but you see it.  You smile benignly and glance at the others as you shift on your squashy stool.

“Brilliant!” she covers smoothly.  “Wonderful.  So you know a little of what we’re doing.  Yes.  Trisna,” she addresses the group again, “is actually an actual witch.  I met her yesterday and honestly she’s so lovely.  Just - mm! - just a forthright, knowledgeable woman.  She really gets people, yeah?”

The women around the room nod with Helen as she speaks, all of them clearly known to her and each other.  You send a thought towards Dean: _text Sam._  He pulls out his phone and lets Sam know what’s going on, that he should get himself into the building if possible.  You consider the chances that Trisna is already nearby and able to detect your telepathy.

 _Tell him he may not be a surprise._ Dean glances at you, and proceeds to type as much before he hits send.

You feel the adrenaline gather in your chest and wash through you system.  The fact that Trisna, the target of this case, isn’t here makes you more than uneasy, and you can feel your right side prickle with static as Dean starts to wind up too.  It’s one thing to be in a room full of witches and their familiars; it’s a whole other thing to have a group civilians and their pets to protect.

There’s some more chat going on and you catch Claudia say to a few people “Well, is there anything we should do to prepare or start?”

“I feel like we should be standing,” says Linda.

“Yes, we can stand if you like,” Helen nods at everyone, keen to keep her status as instigator of all things done.

Everyone gets up, a few miffed cats reluctantly stepping off and looking around.  The seats are pushed to the edges of the space and a sort of circle forms.  You move yourself to shoulder Dean out of the way and you feel him glance at you, unsure, wanting to be in front of you again.  You remind him _Me witch, you familiar_ and he concedes.  Just the change in configuration, a circle of people focused on each other and what’s next, draws an energy you’ve not felt before.  It’s exhilarating and a little scary.

Dean feels it with you and through you.   _I’m right here,_ he thinks, briefly touching your back, supportive and defiantly protective too.  You think of how you haven’t had to command him so far, just that once about the flirt, and remind yourself that though you might be equals, you’re in charge: he’ll just have to get over it if you flex your status.  A strange feeling sparks from him, something like curiosity and obedience.

On the edge of the light, on the other side of the room, you spy the toes of a pair of suede boots.  Your eyes follow them up and the figure moves, coming into the light just as your gaze sweeps her height and she watches you realise what she is.

She wears formless garments, taupe and crimson lengths draping and flowing about her statuesque figure.  Someone appears behind her, over her left shoulder, a tall man gliding like she does, taking up the appraisal of you as his witch begins to look around the group.

“Trisna!” Helen cries. “You’re here!  Come-come!” She cuts across the circle, weaving between Linda and Claudia to take Trisna’s hand, limply offered before a benevolent smile.  “My God you look gorgeous! Doesn’t she look gorgeous?”

Murmurs of agreement roll around - _Love the shoes, Such a style_ \- as Helen ushers her into a place, her familiar hanging back a little, and introduces each person around the circle.  “This is Claudia, Annemarie, Sarah, Leanne-”

“Hi!” Leanne peeps, trying to hide poor Stoppy with her feet.

“-Y/N, and her friend Dean,” Trisna doesn’t make eye contact with either of you, just looks at Julia until her name is said and moves on around the circle.

“Julia, Claire, Fairley, and Linda.  So eleven including you and me,” Helen bounces with pride.

“Oh, that’s a pity,” Trishan sighs.  “Prime numbers are no good for a coven.”  She looks at Helen like she should be fixing this, and thank goodness Helen does have an answer because she looks like she’s doing Kegels as she speaks.

“Oh, well, we would- we would have Elise too, but her little girl has an ear infection.” She tucks her lips in a sad nod.

“Oh poor Ashley, that’s twice this term!” says Fairley.

“I know,” leans Helen.  “They’re such a pain-”

“And you know,” Trisna raises a gracious hand, marionette perfect, to pause the talk, “we could, as a coven, send out just the energy Ashley needs to get better.”

Claudia, lover of all things cyclical, drops a little _Oh!_ and turns to slow blink at Linda like that’s proof.  Linda giggles dryly.

But it’s Trisna who has your attention, and she knows it.  She looks up at you and pinches a little smile, like _Couldn’t we, Dear._  You stay as still as you can.

The chatter starts up again, everyone with ideas of healings and fortunes they wish were possible - bigger vegetables, getting to the front of the childcare waitlist, adding an hour to the day - and Trisna lets Helen occupy her with talk of what tonight might entail, providing vague comments, rather than answers, to her questions.

The man at Trisna’s left steps forward a little and you see he has his gaze fixed on Dean.  A slight turn of the head confirms Dean’s staring right back.  The man moves forward again, into a different light and suddenly you can get a good look at him.

Something like fear curls through you.  He’s muscular, beautiful, fine features angular enough to call him feminine, but all of them sharp and dark in manner.  He looks at Dean like he’s an enemy and you notice how quiet Dean’s mind has become.  You feel him plant himself, a vibration of warring energy rubbing against your side.  Like a column of strength, it grows in volume and you notice Trisna glance his way too.

“Do you know if the bar is open here?” You catch Julia’s elbow.

“Oh, I dunno,” she looks to Helen, who isn’t paying attention.

“I’m gonna go find out,” you smile, and grin like you’re naughty.

You smack Dean on the arm and stalk over to the bar, lifting the bench door to get in there.  You start tilting bottles, pretending to read the labels, and eventually move into the little cleaning room at the end, leaving the door open so you can spy on the group milling around Trisna and introducing themselves to her sinewy familiar.

As soon as you think you’re out of general notice you snatch Dean’s arm.  “ _Do **not**_ let him touch you!” you spit.  “Either of them!”

“Hell no-”

“Not in arm’s reach of him and I don’t even want you having a clear line of sight with her,” you scowl about the situation.

“He’s a fucking dog,” Dean grits out.  “I can smell it from here.”

“Can you tell what kind?” you ask, stopping to look at him in worry.

He shakes his head, reflecting on what he’s gotten so far.  “No… toothy.  Big.”  He looks at you, a tone of _Shit’s about to go down_ about the both of you.

“Okay then,” you say.  You check your pockets for your things - hex pouches, and little ziplock bag of spell juice, a switch-blade - and help yourself to a swig of something mid-shelf.  “We gotta get these women out of here.  And their cats.”

“You okay?” he says, and says it aloud because he wants an answer.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you wipe your mouth.  “Just waitin’ to get angry.”

You stand tall and head back over, meaning to smile and simper amongst the girls but as you move into the circle Trisna addresses you above the din.

“So how did you come to find this lovely circle of friends, Y/N,” she says, her voice milky across the space.

“Social media,” you answer happily.  

She turns to Helen, eyebrows raised, and Helen gives it up.  “Facebook!  A friend of a friend,” she smiles hopefully.

“Which friend?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Trisna clarifies.  “ _Who_ is the friend?”

“Oh! Ummm…”  

Trisna turns to you and for a moment, just a fraction of a second, you look at her knowing full well she’s onto you and your awareness.

But you snap happy and say “I don’t know her name, actually! She’s Elspeth online. You know Massachusetts.  Can’t be too careful.”

“So she could be a fourteen year old boy,” Trisna smiles.

“Well, yeah,” you admit, and shrug sheepishly for the benefit of the commoners.  Sam hasn’t been talking to any Elspeth; he’s hacked the conversations of these women.  

Trisna doesn’t care how you found this occasion, but she’s confident you weren’t invited.

“And Dean,” she says cooly. “How long have you been Y/N’s familiar?”

Fuck.  You almost pop your jaw at that question.  Even you know it’s rude for witches to pry about familiars: _No one_ freaking asks that.

The women are starting to look between you and Trisna, and now her man-dog and Dean. A few of them are leaning back too.

Helen’s hand hovers over Trisna’s arm as she explains “Oh, no, I invited everyone to bring a familiar and the girls thought cats would be best…” Helen talks and Trisna considers the group again. Leanne grins awkwardly, like an apology, when Trisna glances at her kicking away her door stopper. You take the distraction as an opportunity to speak to Julia and lean over just enough to grasp her wrist.  “If you get scared, just hold someone’s hand,” you say significantly, looking her in the eye.  She nods back dumbly and glances at her friends around the room.

When your attention lands back on Trisna, her face has curled into an elegant scowl with darkened eyes and cursive lips. Even the air around her seems sinister.  She’s given up pretending already.

There’s no getting anyone to safety, not unless it falls into chaos and everyone scatters, which is just as likely to bring harm along the way.  The cats have gotten themselves out of sight, and the conversations have hushed.

“You realise, you present as nothing more than a Cunning Woman, Y/N,” Trisna says, stepping inside the circle.  Everyone forgets what they were saying and watches her.

Her familiar follows close behind and you step forward too, to separate the conversation from the bystanders. Dean moves with you, his jacket brushing your shoulder blade.

“And I can smell a pathetic little potion on you, too.  Yet here you are, heavily warded, with a full-fledged familiar.  Telepathic and grounded to each other.  You are a strange creature.”  She speaks as if to flirt.

You say nothing but decide, if she’s onto the weapons, you may as well have them ready. The women gasp at the sight of your switch-blade, then share disappointed and curious _ohs_ when you pull out a little baggie of broth.  It’s not very impressive.

Trisna huffs a laugh of disdain, pitying your amateur effort.

“I’m not going to try to convince these women that you’re terrible, Trisna,” you say, firm and strong.  “But you would trade away their souls in a heartbeat, wouldn’t you?”

“Are you going to tell them how you _kill_ witches?” she says venomously, arching a brow.  “How you’d _burn_ them-”

“You think I give a crap about pumpkins and dream catchers?” you snap, feeling your body grow warm.  There’s a strength inside you, fed by the hum of Dean’s presence, and it’s been quietly nourishing you since the spell.  It might be the potion you drank, and you’ve not been sure about its purpose or quality but you can feel it start to swirl now, an energy gathering around your solar plexus, weaving up your spine and slipping along your nerves. You feel taller and heavier.  “They don’t want to be the kind of witch you are,” you say.  “Selfish and damaged.”

“Don’t forget _deadly_ , Hunter.”

The women gasp, and you hold back on any sort of smile.  Being called deadly by you might sound sexy; coming from her it sounds like a threat.

“Tell you what,” she leans in, “let me have you two, and I’ll walk away from them.”

Trisna’s familiar smiles, a beautiful, broad shining smile of white threat.  He shifts his feet as if to ready and you feel the tension of a fight whorl around the room.

Glowering at the dog-man to back the fuck off, you reach your fingers back, wishing you could tuck Dean into your pocket, unconsciously feeling him with you again.  Then something in Dean starts to find you.  It has the same tone as what’s in you, and you feel his fingers on your back of your arm, the contact scraping an electric _k-k-k-k_ through your skin.

“You don’t wanna see my little firework show first?” you ask the witch.

Trisna’s man begins to walk to your right, inside the circle of shuffling women, toward Dean. You hold his jacket in your fist.  

“Not especially,” Trisna says, and smiles as she recites a short, biting incantation.

“No! _**NO!**_ ”  Somehow you know the words, and feel Dean’s form slip away behind you.  

The dog reveals himself, leaping at you and Dean attacks it’s face as you get out of the way.  Women scream and cry _No!_ They thrash on the floor, torturous seconds passing by, and the dog gets Dean’s back leg in its jaws.

Dean whips around and throws his claws into the dog’s face, scratching at the eyes and biting the nose.  The dog yelps inside his hold, not letting go, but drops to the ground with its captive and growls steadily, awaiting instruction.  Best you can tell Dean doesn’t make a sound but the internal noise of his pain drags itself down your spine like a welding torch.

You feel your heart squeeze and race, panic pulling your bones tight, making you grimace. _Dean! Dean?!_ Your mind flails at the consuming sight of him in danger, and it takes you moments to realise you’re kneeling, panting his name in fear, the power crackling between you.

He’s not shifting back, and he’s not talking to you. You don’t know what Trisna’s done to interrupt your link but when you close your eyes and listen for it you can feel him, feel everything, but he seems gagged.

Trisna peeps a high laugh, something surprised and bemused, and you glare at her.  Dean’s pain and anger starts to throb in you, underscored by the dog’s growl, and you try to let it amplify your determination, bring clarity and focus.

You and Sam designed the broth to be thrown with the spell, something that should evaporate a witch and her companions,hopefully sending them to another plane, if not another county.  Coupling that with a gunshot would’ve been satisfying but you weren’t sure a bullet would do the job on this particular witch, and you simply won’t get to your ankle holster in time.  You’re beginning to fear that this spell needs some serious upgrading for it to be effective.

The cats around the room start a low yowl, and Dean’s paws are now soaking up the blood from the dog’s brow as he holds on tight, his own blood dripping with the drool where canines puncture his leg.  There’s not that much meat there on a cat and you’re listening for the sound of bones as the pair of them move by incremental measures, slowly levering against each other.

Swallowing the bile of grief and fear, you begin to say the words you’ve brought.  Trisna frowns and starts to tell you off, speaking over you - “It won’t be enough child!”  “You haven’t got the juice!”

You repeat the incantation, calling on the energy of the earth to banish this witch to another place and time, holding the baggie out towards Dean, waiting for the moment to break the seal.  The cats on the edge of the space start to whine and hiss and you glance back, seeing Julia’s hand tightly holding Claire’s and when you look up at Claire, chanting the words again if only to fill the air with something safer than Trisna’s voice - “You’re embarrassing yourself, girl!” - Claire snatches Fairley’s, who takes up Linda’s and so on. Quickly the circle of nine is sealed.  

Primes may suck for a coven but square numbers are fucking dynamite.

“Whenever you feel like ending this spectacle,” Trisna leans toward you, hands on hips, talking quietly as you repeat your words, “I’ll be happy to show you how it’s done.”

As she finishes speaking, her hair and clothes begin to sway, blown about by the energy being brought by your words, and she can’t hide her distraction.

The women around you start saying _Oh no, Oh God,_ and although Trisna smirks at their fear, you can see her confidence is tested.  

“Y/N!” Leanne calls.  “You got this Y/N!”

Trisna’s glare snaps up at her, then back to you, trying to judge the next move, but the others pick up on her flinch and start cheering you on like you’re going out to bat.  “We gotcha Y/N!”  “Get her girl!” “Come on Y/N!!”

“Dean!” He looks at you and you command him. _“Man up!”_  Instantly his form bursts large and he yells out at the pain of his calf pushing into the dog’s jaw.  The dogs scrambles, claws clattering, with a bite now much bigger than he can chew, while Dean keeps his hold, straining against fists full of skin around the dog’s ears.

The infant coven ripples with cries of fright and your name is repeated like fire-crackers, called out for bravery and hope, over the constant loop of you calling the spell again.

Trisna frowns in surprise that you’ve been able to bring Dean back.  She stands taller and seems to plan something, her spindly fingers moving outward in preparation.  The nine voices around you stumble upon rhythm, syllables matched and focus found, and sway as the magic ripples through the circle.

You flip the switch-blade open and hold out the baggie in your other hand, the broth dangling from your fist.  Trisna finally starts speaking, fighting back.  But her effort is only a whisper inside the storm of your name being invoked.  

Without words, Dean understands to grab onto it, one hand giving up a grip on the dog and reaching for your fist.  His magic connects with yours, racing into you, scratching hot along your nerves and boiling where you touch. It stings, making you pause and gasp, and you grit your teeth to own it.

With your hold in his, you whip the blade beneath, cutting both your hands and breaking the pouch.  Changing the words, you declare again, fast, angry and loud, this time calling upon the earth and all the ungodly power you wield to banish the witch and hers from existence.  You pin Dean’s hand to the ground, your bloodied palms splashing into the broth.  The power you’ve fostered punches out of you, wrenched through your chest, a cold burn flashing in its wake.  The liquid flares golden and bounces into the air, a cloud of heat and wrath, and bursts outward, vaporising Trisna, and her big dog too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trisna has been banished. Time to measure the damage and, hopefully, take a breather.

You scramble over to Dean, cupping his head to see that his eyes are open, then yank him into your arms for a tight, desperate hug.  “You okay? You’re okay?  Let me see,” you pant, tugging on his shirt to see his neck and patting around his chest to check for puncture wounds, surely much bigger now that he’s large too.  The room is still but for the sounds of your shoes scraping, him grunting and fabric being pulled.  Your audience is windswept and stunned, watching anxiously to see what happens next.

“Shit, Y/N, no,” he winces and leans for his leg.  “No, just this.”

You slide down and use your switchblade to slice the jeans, wiping at the blood to see the holes.  “Ugh fuck!” you gasp, watching four of them, large and pulled out of shape, burbling blood afresh.

“I got it,” you hear by your shoulder, and Fairley is there with a scarf.  “I’m a nurse, I got it.”

“Thank you,” you say. “Thank you.  He’s- He’s my-”  Dean’s pulls on your arm, and you sit beside him with your back to Fairley working fast.  You go back to inspecting him for injuries, looking over every inch of skin on his face and the back of his head for any scratches.  

“I’m okay, Y/N,” he tells you, starting to calm and get used to the pain.  He takes your wrists to reassure.  “Seriously, it’s just my leg.”

“Right.  Okay,” you nod.  You pat around his chest a bit and end up holding onto the sleeves at his shoulders, closing your eyes to thank everything for a moment, and breathe.

“I can’t hear you,” he says.

There’re the murmurs of Fairley instructing another, and Helen quietly sobbing over the scene, but nothing else.  You look up at him and feel the silence.  He’s not there in your mind anymore.  You feel regular, plain.

“I must’ve spent it all,” you reason.  “I mean I changed the spell, asked it to use our power.”

“Why didn’t you keep me as a cat? For the magic.”

“I was scared that if it used you, like that, you’d be used up altogether.  When people have familiars for a purpose, and the purpose is fulfilled…” You weren’t sure, really, what would’ve happened.  You just wanted to be able to hold him, feel him there as himself, when you did it, just in case.

“See?” he smirks a little and you roll your eyes just enough before his palm slides over the side of your neck, warm and sure, pulling you to him for a hug.  “Told ya,” he murmurs.

“Dean!” Sam’s deep tenor booms from the corridor and everyone jumps, squeals and breathy curses echoing around the room.

“In here!” Dean calls back.  “We’re good!”

Sam bursts into the room, gun in one hand, broth baggie in the other, chest heaving, hair bouncing as he takes in the scene of an injured Dean being cared for inside a circle of shivering women.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ faint,” Julia mutters. She drops herself down on one of the stools as you get up to meet Sam.

“You’re okay?” he grasps your shoulders, - _Oh Lordy_ , you hear nearby - Sam waits for an answer.

“Yeah, but I think the contract has ended,” you tell him.

“But you’re okay,” Sam checks. “It worked? There’s just that?” he nods at Dean’s leg.  Little sighing noises peep from the girls every time Sam does something.

“Just that,” you confirm.  “And yeah, it totally worked.”  You smile at him and he grins back, pulling you into a quick hug.   _Hoo he’s big_ , you hear behind you.

Sam tucks his gun into his waistband - _Oh, gosh_ \- and says “I couldn’t get in!” He squats down by Dean - _Hmm!_ \- and smiles kindly at Fairley, leaning over to see, and flicks his hair back before standing again - _Golly_.

Soon Dean’s good enough to walk and you’re ready to go.  You head over to Helen, who’s being comforted by Linda, Annemarie and Claudia.  They stand to meet you, Helen wailing “I’m so sorry!” and wrapping her arms around you.  “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know!” she cries, and you hug her back patiently.

“It’s okay,” you pat-pat and let her rock you both.  “She’s done it before, I’m sure.”

You let her go and hold her shoulders, repeating “Don’t worry about it.  You don’t know what she did to make this happen.”

Helen nods, blinking tears down her cheeks.  

“And you guys were amazing,” you turn to look pointedly at Claire, who knew to link the group.  You don’t normally get cheesy but the praise is deserved.  “Amazing. Seriously, when you started using my name,” you look at Leanne, clutching Stoppy for strength, “that invocation gave me enough that I could release Dean.  It made all the difference.  Y’all should book a spa day tomorrow.”  Laughter peals around the room, Hell-yeahs and _Jesus, yes, let’s **do** that!_ breaking the tension.

You shake a few hands, let the shaken ones hug you, then tuck yourself under Dean’s arm as a crutch.  Sam gives a card to Fairley saying “If you come across anything witchy again and you’re not sure, just give us a call.”

“Oh really?” she says turning it over like Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.

“Uh…” he frowns. “Yeah, just… for if, you know, you accidentally invite another monster to your hen’s night, or something.”

He means it to remind her of how their asses just got saved, but instead he has eight sets of eyes looking up at him, glassy and adrenaline-drunk, memorising his stubble and proportions, and leaning forward to see his number.  Imagining him at a hen’s night…

“So, okay,” he starts to back way. “Take care!”

You head straight back to the motel so Dean can rest, not that he seems tired.  The drive is full of him doing an animated recount for Sam and you’re thankful for the chatter from the front seat.  It continues on into their motel room, as drinks are poured and snacks spread on the table, and Dean prompts you for your parts when he rehashes the juicy bits.

“Are you sure that invoking your name made a difference?” he checks, you and Sam joining him at the table.  “Did you know it would?”

“Yeah,” you say.  “It felt different.  There was a moment where they all said it at the same time and I almost fell over.”

“Are you okay?” Sam asks.

“I dunno,” you look at him, finally showing your worry.  “I’m just not sure of what I’ve done.  I sent parts of us out there for dark magic.  I used the power of others.  I feel like I’ve broken a seal on something… I mean, I’m not a witch. I don’t want to _witch_.  But that was big stuff.  We made Dean into a shifter and killed two souls using our blood and a coven.  That’s pretty fucken big.”  You take a sip, and then a swig, and half feel like going back to the nightclub, or calling Helen and co., to check if everything is as you left it.

“I’m okay,” you nod at them both.  “I am.  I’m sure nothing’s come of it.”

Sam tries to act lightly for you and run with what you’re saying, but Dean’s looking at you with concern, head tilted forward while his leg’s propped up on another chair.  It’s like he’s listening for you, waiting for a message.

But there’s nothing between your minds.  Only gazes, not really seeing each other as you listen to long silences. You miss the background noise of him so much, even after just a few hours of it.

Beer half done, you force a full breath into yourself.  “I’m gonna head to bed,” you sigh.  “A good night’s sleep will probably help.”  Standing, you ask, “You guys need anything? You’re all set?” directing it all at Dean and nodding at his leg.

“Yeah, we’re good,” he answers, waving his drink at his injury.  “We’ll get some sleep, all better.”

Half an hour later, you’ve sorted out your pj’s and had some water but you haven’t wound down enough to get into the shower. There’s a knock at your door and you scowl at the peephole when you see it’s Dean.  He slips into the room as soon as the door’s open enough.

“What the hell are you doing on that leg?!” you scold.  He’s changed back into his regular clothes, nice ones too.

“You’re not okay,” he says, circling around your room, “but there’s nothing we can do about it so we’re going out, get your mind off things.”  He drags his fingers on the benchtop as he walks, flicks at instant coffee packets.

“I thought you wanted to stay in.”

“I did. We can, if you really want.” He sits on the bed. “Let’s stay in.”

“Why aren’t you limping? Did you call Cas?” you nod at his leg suspiciously.

Dean scoffs half-heartedly. “ _No_. He came to see why I was purring my prayers, and he offered so… c’mon.”  He sees what he wants, dives into your bag and holds up your wallet.

“What?”

“Let’s go!”

“Really?”

“No?”

“Oh my god, which is it? In or out?”  You haven’t even let go of the handle.

He stares out the door for a few seconds… “Out.  C’mon.  That was a win, let’s celebrate.”  He smiles.

You look at the wallet and say, “Yeah, okay, just gimme a minute to-”

“Don’t change,” he points at you, and stands to put your wallet in his own pocket.  When he sees you wonder why, he explains “You kidding me? Don’t wanna ruin the line of that leather on your ass, Y/N.”

You pinch your pout to the side, nod a little and take a deep breath because, that’s right, you can’t stop the flirting now. He grins a Cheshire smile; you roll your eyes, slap your hand on your jacket, and go.

…

It took you a while to find a decent one, but his bar is _much_ nicer.  Dean is next to you with Sam opposite, in a booth against the wall.  The bar’s not that big but it’s reasonably crowded, all the tables full.

You bend yourself, flex and tilt your back, trying to ease off the tension and work of the evening.  Dean looks at the bar beyond you but you feel his eyes run up and down your form as he sips, trying to think of how to help you unwind.

Sam opens his mouth to say something, finger raised and all, when the door behind him bursts open.  A group pours into the space, their noise cacophonous over the social buzz and background music. They cackle and squeal and move towards the bar like a caterpillar of jeans and heels. It’s the coven, your coven.

Sam and Dean both move to see, but pull back a little when they realise who it is.  Leanne leans out of the cluster and calls the bartender for a round of vodka cranberries.  Sarah, catches his eye, shakes her head no, and you realise they’re missing a few.

Bouncing your eyebrows at Sam, you brace yourself and go to slide out of the booth.  Dean takes your hand saying “You don’t have to if you’re not up for it.”

“No no, I’m good,” you assure.  “Think this’ll need some management.” You smile and miss him some more.

Behind the group, you lean over the row of glasses readied for the order, and say to the bartender “It’s on me.”

“Y/N!” Fairley sees you, and your name is echoed by the girls.  “Oh my god, it’s Y/N!”

“Yournaaaame!” “Our hero!” “The witchiest bitch in town!”

“Hey, hi-”

They pull you into the group like an anemone’s meal and mill around you, all giddy and hurdy gurdy.  Leanne hugs you, then Julia slides her arm around your back, hand hooked on your waist and squeezes you from the left.

“Hey,” you smile kindly, a little hesitant.  “Hey, you ladies seem to have recovered.”  They’re already half cut and as you look around the group you can tell, from their makeup and style, the year each of them met their husbands.  Julia, Leanne and Sarah present as the most uptodate.

“I think we’ve done, what? Six bottles? Did I see six by the bin?” Fairley asks the group, a few of them organising everyone’s jackets and handbags.

“Seven.” Claire tells her, “Four red, plus three white.”

“Well, there’s six of us, not too bad,” says Fairley, leaning slightly as she hugs your right arm, the one Julia doesn’t have, clutching it to her chest and belly.

“That’s over a bottle each,” you tell her.  

“Hmm?”

Over her head, you glance at Dean and try not to smile. He and Sam are grinning back, watching the show.

The drinks are slowly collected, conversations becoming disjointed with sipping.  “Claudia and Annemarie took Helen home,” Sarah fills you in over her soda.  “They’ve all got littlies.”

Leanne grabs your hand, squeezing “You wanna drink?” and yells at the bartender, “Another drink!”

“No! Thanks! No, I have one already,” you call, unable to really gesture or turn to the bartender with Julia and Fairley anchoring your body.

“Oooh what are you drinking?”

“Uuuh whiskey,” you admit.  All three of them fish their straws into their mouths and squint lipless smiles, blinking at you for a few seconds.  Leanne spits out her straw sighing “I wish I could handle whiskey,” and her grin goes all gooey.

You clear your throat.  “So I wanted to check,” you begin.  “You guys are done with witchcraft, right?  That was it for you.”

“Oh GOD!” “GOD yes!”  “No, that’s enough for this little black duck.”  All of them nod and agree, sharing glares of _yikes_ and _holy crap._  

“But don’t you…” Fairley squeezes your arm again, her chin almost resting on your shoulder.  “Aren’t you… a witch?”

“N- No, uh,” you stammer.  It’s hard to make eye contact with her so close.  “No, it’s just you need to… fight fire with fire sometimes.”

The girls have found their places, Linda and Sarah with arms linked, Leanne kind of in the middle, the clump of them alternating between little snipped chats with each other and listening to you while they sip.

“So you use witchcraft,” Fairley clarifies.  

“Yeah, against witches mostly.”

“ _Are_ you a hunter?” asks Julia.  She still has an arm around your waist and she’s looking at you like the hero you actually are.

“Yeah-”

“What do you hunt?”

“Just witches?” Linda wonders.  

Every time they say the word you cringe, hoping no one will overhear, but a glance around proves that everyone nearby is occupied and unconcerned with your crowd.  The girls, though, are hanging on your every word and too drunk to notice time pass as they wait, completely rapt.  “…And everything else.”

Eyes flare and they all lean in a little.  “What, like… _vampires?”_ Claire whispers hoarsely and sips.

You take a deep breath while they wait, straightening enough to see Dean grinning and leaning on the table.  You scratch your neck and hesitate to answer, because Fairley’s fingers are tracing your arm muscles while you stand there in leather pants, drinking whiskey, telling a bunch of doe-eyed women that you’re a vampire hunter.  For cliché’s sake.  “Yeah, vampires, werewolves, the whole kit.  Everything but the toothfairy.”  Then squint a little ‘cause you’re about 70% sure that’s a thing too.

“With Dean and that guy?” Fairley asks, and then they’re a flutter of noise as they meerkat around the room to see. “Are those guys here?” “Are they here?” “What’s the other one’s name?”

Leanne spies Dean, who salutes his drink her way, and she stares at him through the crowd, sighing “Oh God, I am so gay for that pussy.”

“Leanne!” Julia gasps, and a few of the others giggle scandalously.

“I would though,” she adds, leaning towards Julia and Linda.  “If he’s, you know, into that sorta thing.  You wanna be gay with me Julia? For the pussy?”  She’s giggles through shining cheeks, Julia nodding emphatically while she sips, enjoying the joke.  “Ask Y/N,” you overhear from one of them as you glance his way again.  “God, look at her ass in those pants.”  “I know.”  “And she can _kill monsters_.” “I _know_.”

Meanwhile, your untethered train of thought is loud and clear inside you.   _No, Leanne, I like him better, I know him better, better than you._ You’re trying hard not to frown at them over this.

“ _Leanne_ ,” Julia presses, “he’s Y/N’s… _you know_ …”

Leanne looks at you, wide eyed.  “Shit, sorry Y/N!  Yeah, he’s yours isn’t he? You guys are together, right? Because he’s your familiar.”

“Ye- he’s-  Well, it’s not like a full… service… or anything.”  Ugh god, this is terrible.

You realise quickly that all their talk is now about Dean.  They’ve noticed his change in clothes, the drink he’s swirling, his full lips and the amused look on his face, and started speculating about what kind of lover he is.

“Sam” you say, with volume, and everyone stops for you again.  “Oh yes?” “Hell yes.”  “Is that the other’s name?  Damn.”

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Sam overheard that, straightening in the booth, so you bring it down a notch.  “Sam… is… single.”  Oh Jesus, how do you do this.  “He’s.  He’s excellent.  An extremely good and nice guy.”

“I would climb him like a tree.” “I bet he puts the lumber in lumberjack.”  “The word is _proportionate._ ” “Look at that hair.  It’s a frikken lion’s mane.”

“Okay, guys?” you’re feeling protective again.  “Girls?  He’s.  Just.”  Ugh, you know what, Sam’s a grown man, but you are gonna cut him this slack.  “I’m not sure how keen he’d be to have a bunch of married women groping him.”

“Oh no!” “No-no!” “We wouldn’t-” The noise of them reassuring you rolls around, lots of closed eyes and air-patting.

“I know, I’m sure,” you pat back. “I’m just saying, because, you know, I love him like a brother.”

“Don’t you worry, Y/N,” Leanne puts a hand on your wrist.  “Julia and I are the only ones single and she’s the only one worth having.  It’s already settled.”

“ _Leanne_ ,” Julia scolds.  “That’s just not true.  You’re gorgeous.”

“But guys don’t like me,” she squishes her nose. “I’m a dork.”

“Not true! And you’re forgetting Sarah,” Julia nods.

“Oh crap! Yeah! And Sarah.  God she’s a sweetheart but so laid back.  I always forget Sarah.  She’s- Ooshit-”

You follow Leanne’s line of surprised sight and only just catch Dean as he comes up beside you.  The women step away, sliding off you like he’s soap to their oil.  Julia even holds her hands up in surrender.

He hands you your drink, practically shining with cheek.  “Ladies,” he starts, ignoring the hums of mercy, “does anyone play pool?”

“Guys this is Sam,” you say. He nods at them and all six women drawl “Hi Sam,” in one unified, breathy, ovulating voice.

Everyone sips.

“Pool’s a great idea,” you say to Dean, since no one else looks fit to speak.

“Yeah?” he touches his fingers to your back, probably wondering how you’re liking the fangirls.

 _You little shit_ , you smile back, _what’re you- God._  You blink at his unanswering smile, pausing… _he really can’t hear you.  Make your mouth talk, dammit._  “Yes.  Let’s do that.”

“Maybe me an’Sam against, who?” He turns to the group.  “Who’s ready to get their asses licked?”

“What?” Julia breathes, leaning forward a little.

“Think you’re channeling the cat a little hard there Dean,” you nudge him.  His grin is relentless.

“What? It’s gonna happen.  Innit?” he says to Sam.

“Sure is,” Sam agrees.

“I nominate Leanne and Julia,” you say brightly.

Leanne snatches Julia’s arm, eyes wide, lips pinched in her most ecstatic non-smile.  You hook your elbow into Dean’s arm, turning him so you can do the same to Sam and pull him down to talk in secret.  “Julia and Leanne are single, but keep an eye out for Sarah,” you say.  “She’s not drinking but I suspect she’s more your type.”

Sam’s eyebrows bounce and he looks back to the group.  “Brunette with the tall soda,” you add.

He catches who you mean and his eyes don’t leave her, steadily watching her smile and chat to Claire.  It’s a good sign, so you let him go, and talk to Dean.

“You planning on doing the display part of the night early?” you ask and mimic his form.  “Have you seen my ass? Here’s my ass? I have a perky ass.  Perk perk perk,” you stir.

“Think it’ll work?”  You’ve arrived at an empty table, tall and round, and Dean puts his drink by yours while Sam heads for the pool cues.

“Oh yeah,” you nod and frown in mock confidence.  “That ass? 110% guaranteed.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pool and drinks and flirting and kisses.

Dean winks at you, quick and private, before heading over to the pool table, and your cheeks blush while you clench your jaw in frustration.  Not being able to hear his mind is getting annoying.  You haven’t talked yet about whatever he might’ve heard from you, or what he thinks you feel-

“Do you think either of them stand a chance?” Claire asks, nodding at Julia and Leanne.  They’re conferring at the head of the pool table, arguing about the _other_ being a better match for Sam, and not quietly enough.   You even see Leanne pump her fist up and down, suggesting rock-paper-scissors.  Sam’s trying not to watch while talking to Dean, who is trying to watch but can’t stop glancing back at you.

“As it stands right now? Hard to say really,” you decide.  You slide onto a stool, dragging your feet out of the jackets and bags now around the table’s stem.  Linda is on your right, Claire sits opposite, and Fairley and Sarah have their own table behind her.  All of you have a good view of the pool table to your left, and you manage to smother your laugh as Dean uses his forearms to shuck the balls into formation.

“Holy fuck, Y/N,” Linda sighs.  “How long have you been with that man?”

“I- uh,… we’re not-”

“You’re _kidding me_ ,” Claire gasps.  “But you’re- aren’t you two-?”

“No,” you sip your drink and lick your lip guiltily.  “It was a contract for the job.  We set up a witch and familiar relationship so we could blend in, have some ammo and catch the witches.  We didn’t realise you guys weren’t practising yet, not yet witches. But we knew about Trisna.”

“Is she dead?” Linda asks.

You look at them both and wonder whether lies or truths will ease them better.  You watch Sam choose a shot that brings him to your side of the table, where he can apologise to Sarah for her having to make room, and so Sarah can watch him take up room.  That’s our boy.

“Probably,” you tell them.

A moment passes, while they think.  “Will she come back for us?” Claire asks.

“Probably not.” It isn’t much comfort and you sip again.  “But this is what it’s like.  This is why you don’t do witchcraft.  It’s all slippery villains and flexible facts and shit.  And it all makes a difference to you eventually.  Change what’s in your life and you’ll change who you are.”

Neither of them drink, but they look at each other like they just felt their luck flash before their eyes.  

Dean ducks in to grab his beer.  “You see our boy Sam make that move?” he says to you.

“Sure did.”

“Taught him everything he knows,” he leans at Claire.

“Pfft! About _cars_ ,” you laugh.

Dean turns back to the game, pretending that he didn’t just give you a shoulder nudge that makes you grab the table.  You spend some time watching him play.  Dean’s standing a little closer to the table than is usual, head twitching everywhere as he watches all the balls move along their paths. When he walks around to choose his shot, you wonder if his shoulders always rolled like that.  His hips _normally_ do that thing, you think…  maybe he was always a little bit feline.  

You wonder if his mind is angling towards you like yours is to him.  He’s become like a moon to you, with a comfortable distance and a pull.  Yes, he’s the moon.  Not you-

“Wait, so, what’s it like for you?” Claire asks.  “I mean, you’re a hunter and you do witchy things.  Does that stuff follow you too?”

You rub your knuckles over your mouth and let the thumbnail works its way between your lips.  Sam and Dean saunter around the table, all dimples and swagger, taking their time with each shot because it’s totally in the bag.  Leanne and Julia stand together and lean on their cues, joking for each other as much as the guys, saying things far saucier than they’d ever normally say, all of it surface tension and sass.

Dean catches your thoughtful eye across the table and his eyebrows ask a little question.  You blink a small smile in reply.  It’s all so quiet in your head.

“Someone’s gotta do it,” you sigh and take a deep breath, smiling in hope of a new topic.

“How do you get paid?”

“Claire!” Linda scolds.

“No, hush!  Who pays you? Are you government?”

Well, this is getting awkward.  “No, is the short answer,” you tell her.

“I’m writing you a cheque,” she says and pulls a little booklet out of her bag.

“Why the hell do you have a chequebook in your bag?!” Linda exclaims.

“ _In case I need to write a cheque_ ,” Claire scowls.  “I’m the rich bitch amongst us, Y/N.  You should have some money for what you guys do.  What’s your last name?”

“Claire-” your hand is reaching across the table, “Claire, there’s no one you can make it out to,” you explain, hoping she’ll understand how far off the grid your lives are.

Which she does, cold and embarrassed, and slowly decides.  “Well, I’ll make it out to cash.”

“Please, Claire, there’s no need-”

“No, you saved our lives tonight,” the corners of her mouth pull down as she talks. “You saved us.”

No one else seems to have noticed how tense your table has gotten.  You pause while Claire picks her words, stubborn and tight, and Linda works on not getting emotional.  

“You saved us and I can’t tell anybody about it but these women.  So I’m doing the only thing I can and that’s money.”  She starts to write on the little pad.  You swallow and glance at Linda, who’s watching the pen move.

Claire keeps talking, mostly to Linda, to calm herself and bring the mood soft again. “Steve won’t even notice it.  Seriously.  You know Gemma- that’s Steve’s sister,” she fills you in.  “She bought her sister-in-law a thermomix because she lost the instructions to her own.   _Two grand_.” She goes back to writing, sometimes gesturing with her pen as she chatters. “I mean, she gets the cookies for being generous but she doesn’t even _like_ her sister-in-law.  These are the people I know, Y/N.  It’s a fuckin’ other world.  I just make sure I see these gorgeous girls to keep myself grounded.”  Claire swirls her signature on the dotted line, rips off the page, folds it once and pushes it across the table.  “I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

Carefully, you take her offering and put it in your pocket. “Thank you Claire.  Really… having saved such a lovely group of women is payment enough.”

Claire slumps a little, like _Don’t give me that shit._

You huff a laugh and admit, “Yeah okay, _and_ money is nice.  Thank you.”

“You make sure you splurge with that,” she waves a finger at your pocket.

“Yeah, get you and Dean a night out somewhere,” Linda says, and she catches your sarcastic eyeroll as you finish off your drink.  “No, wai-wait, go back.  You and Dean.  He’s not even a fling thing? Fuck buddy? Whatever?”

“No.  He’s not my-” My _anything_ … “He’s my friend.”

“Y/N,” says Claire, “Sweetheart.  He is _not_ your friend.”

Linda backs up her train of thought. “God no.”  
“Can you not _see_ how he looks at you?”  
“He is _not_ your friend.”  
“At least he doesn’t wanna be.”  
“If I had someone look at me like that-?”  
“Jesus, I can’t remember the last time Steve looked at me for more than 2 seconds.  I mean, we _love_ each other, but _that_ \- Dean can’t see anything but you!”

Your eyes can barely keep up with who’s saying what.  

“Okay, so do you have any girl friends?” Claire puts her hands on the table.

“I got a coupla women we work with.  Cops, awesome girls.”

“How often do you see them?”

“Uuh, aboooou-”

“Yeah, not enough.  So you haven’t got a sister around to tell you what’s going on!”

“There’s nothing,” you start to blow it off.  “It doesn’t matter. And it’s complicated.  Dean’s-”

“Yours,” Linda cuts across it, pointed finger poking the air, facing you directly.  “He’s fucking yours, Y/N.  A man doesn’t gaze at a woman like that unless he wants to get got.  You see the show he’s puttin’ on for you?”

You rub your hand across your forehead, unable to look over at him, and unable take a breath deep enough.  The last thing you need is to hang your heart on a hopeless idea.  You need to talk to Dean, but you don’t want to drag the evening down with, well, however that might go.

“Hey.” Then he’s right there by your left, deep voiced and warm.  His hand slides scalding between your shoulder blades where the skin is bare cool and you remember how you’re wearing these clothes because he asked you to.  “You doin’ okay?”  He’s concerned under all that suave.

“Yeah!” you perk up.  “How’d you go?”

“Girl’s went down in flames,” he grins, and you all look to the other side of the space where Leanne and Julia are laughing together.  Julia breaks away gesturing at everyone for another round of drinks.  You all nod and raise your glasses yes and she heads off to the bar.

Dean turns back to you. “Hey winner picks the next victim.  You wanna play Sam and Sarah.”

“Oh HELLo!” Linda says and they both turn to see the new couple smiling by a corner pocket.  “Oh my god.  Oh God, look at them.”

“They’re adorable,” says Claire.  
“I’m gonna puke.”  
“She’s gonna burst into flames.”

“Give ‘im a coupla hours,” you mutter. “You’ll be pickin’ a plot.”

Claire swivels back, grinning wildly, and scrunches her shoulders at Linda in excitement.  

You look at Sam and Sarah laughing and you slide off your stool, grumbling “Oh god we’re gonna have to watch him show her how to shoot an’ all.”

Dean looks at you, right in your eyes, like he’s saying something, but he’s silent. His lips bunch up a little, a tight little expression of frustration, and he looks above your head for a moment in thought.  “Come on, let’s go kick their asses.”

You smile at the girls and head over to the cue rack. Dean stands close and shares a secret little conversation, something you might pretend never happened.

“I keep forgetting you can’t hear me,” he says.  “It’s annoying as shit.”

“I know, me too.  This talking aloud is fuckin’ laborious.”

“I think that’s why I talked all the way back, in the car, it was so weird with it-” he waves an open hand by his ear, “so quiet.”

“I keep looking at you like it might start working again, you know.  Or I just pretend I know what you’re thinking anyway.” He’s nodding as he chalks his cue.  “Like, I don’t even- I’m talking for you-”

Julia interrupts you with the tray of drinks and you get through half of yours.  Dean takes his time though, licks his lips while he looks at you, thinking another infuriatingly private thought you can’t predict.

“What?”

He rubs the surfaces of his glass, pausing. “Did it hurt?” he asks.  You guess he means the banishing spell.

Well that’s the rest of your whiskey.  “Yeah, a little,” you shrug.  “Wait, did it hurt you?”

“No,” he looks down, frowning at his drink and shaking his head.  “Burned a bit, but no.  Felt like I gave it all to you, but I could see it leave you, flare out… Didn’t look comfortable.”

“You had a _dog_ on your leg,” you remind him.  “I think I’s gonna be okay.  Come on, let’s break before they start makin’ out.”

Sarah is lovely and actually a lot of fun, even while she only has eyes for Sam.  Sam is cute as fuck and keeps giving Dean slow, dry blinks of Fuck Off coz Dean’s tickled pink that Sam’s caught this cute non-drinker.  “She’s not a _non-drinker_ ,” Sam corrects him during a quick chat as they pass. “She’s not a prude; she’s allergic to alcohol-”

“Oh, _**o**_ kay,” Dean goofs.

“She’s an OR nurse,” Sam says, exasperated.

Dean tic-tocs his head _If you say so_ and you back hand him in the gut. “Knock it off.  She’s gonna fuck your balls dry anyway Sam, whadda you care what Dean says.”

Dean breaks into giggles that bend him backwards, and Sam glares dimples at you as you grin and head off for your shot.

“At least they won’t be blue,” he mutters, walking away before Dean can get a word back.

At one point, you and Dean stand together watching Sam and Sarah flirt and giggle, taking forever to finish her shot. You don’t hurry them along though because your shoulder is leaning towards the warmth of Dean’s chest, his freshly wiskeyed breath blowing hot down your neck and cleavage.  He’s drunk enough, you both are, to pretend it isn’t happening when he puts his glass on the table behind you and drags his cheek bone along the back of your head, nudging gently. His hand slips onto the skin low on your neck, below the halterneck’s strap, fingertips still chilled and damp, and he slides his palm down your spine slow enough to make you feel taller.

Then his hand smooths slow and heavy over your shoulders, rubbing a big circle over your back.  You let yourself sway with the motion and sigh, let it soothe you, and after a while he’s dragging strokes down your back, down one side of your spine and then the other, over and over.

“S’nice huh?”

“Mmmm,” you manage, swallowing what could be drool.

“Gonna damn well miss that,” he says, and keeps patting.  You’ve closed your eyes and begun to breathe deeply.  Several seconds pass - Sam and Sarah are talking with Julia and Leanne now, ignoring you - and Dean changes the rub to back and forth across your lower back, letting his fingers slide over the rise of your hip, and pulls you against him so your hip tucks into the dip of his.  “Kinda wish we could make a temporary spell,” he says, and you half hum in curiosity.

“Just a day,” he murmurs, “where we could both shift…”  He rubs his chin against you.  “Take turns rubbing each other’s bellies, play some hide ‘n go seek.”

You’re eyes have closed, maybe so you can pretend.  It was almost like telepathy again, for a moment.  

His hand rests on your hip while he looks at you.  “Don’t stop,” you say, and wiggle a little, scrunching your brow and arching for it when he rubs more firmly, pushing his fingertips into the muscle as he drags up and down again.

“Yeah you like that doncha beautiful girl-” You look up at him, ready to laugh at him being cheeky, but there’s no cheek on him, not a shred.  He’s gazing, like he might find your thoughts written inside the back of your eyes… possibly a lean-

“Y/N! It’s your turn!” Sam calls.

“ _Son_ ofa-” Dean mutters.

“Fuckin’, a hex on your dick Sam,” you agree quietly, and head around to the white ball.

Turns out Sarah is really not a prude - she swears blue as a sailor and is twice as sharp off the drink.  By the time you finish this game, Claire, Fairley and Linda have watched enough Winchester action to last them till the next Fireman’s fundraising calendar.  They head off with heartfelt thanks, hugs and significant gazes for you and What You Should Do.  Julia and Leanne are still at their table, sozzled and full of sloppy sass and commentary as you play.

“Okay, this time, you two against me and Sam,” Dean suggests.  You’ve been holding a steady level of drunkenness and started to ease into the sexiness of your leather pants, enjoy the heels for a change, and you and Sarah have struck up a friendly shallow friendship, for people who’ll probably never meet again.  Everyone’s an extra level of close thanks to the grog and barely a second has passed that you and Dean haven’t faced each other somehow, no matter what’s between you.  You just don’t want him out of your sight.

Julia and Leanne help you try and put the boys off - “How can he see past his hair?” “Hey pussy cat!” “COUGH BOOBS COUGH!”  But nothing works quite as well as when Sarah says “Y/N, I’m not sure I know how to take this shot.  Could ya… gimme a hand?”

Sam rolls his eyes, grinning and shaking his head, and the noise from the gallery is all _Oh Yes! Put it in the pocket!!_ Sarah looks at you gamely, inviting you to show her the shot.  

You are very on board and slide your body past Sam’s saying quietly,  “Waddya think Sam?  Should I give her a hand?”

The girls peal with laughter as Sam starts one word after another.  Dean just looks like he’s about to panic.  He stands at the end of the table, cue in one hand, other arm slack, and gapes as you perform for Sam’s discomfort.

“Oh yeah Sarah, suuure,” you purr.

You come up behind her and she says “Yeah, I’m thinking the corner pocket, but it’s so awkward.”

“That _is_ awkward,” you agree smoothly. “No you wanna try for this one. Okay well first you gotta- oh hey look at that, you’re good with a stick, huh?”

“Fucking, Y/N,” Sam pleads with a smile, “Please don’t.”

“The lady asked for some help Sam,” you admonish.  “Do I _look_ like someone who says no?”

Dean drags his hand down his face and moves so he’s half behind Sam.

Sarah leans over, slides a hand along the felt, splays it for the cue and lines up the shot.

“You want a little-,” you tap her inner ankle with your foot and she widens her stance. “Yeah, that’s the way. Nice and strong, easy.”

Leaning over her back as if to eyeball the angle, you say “Wait! One sec,” and hold her hips in front of yours, levering so you can stand straight, then shift her hair off her shoulder. “Tickles my nose,” you say.

Sam stands stock still, grin faltering, and whines your name, quietly and uselessly. Dean turns to lean his elbows on the tall table behind Sam and you think, from his muttering, he might be reciting the exorcism. Julia and Leanne have gone quiet.

You lean over again so your body mimics the right angle of Sarah’s, note how Sam compares your leather to her denim, and say “Yep. Looks good.”

“Hit it hard?”

Sam shifts his stance, blinking, pretending he’s not blushing hot.

You stand up and step back. “Yeah. Tap that,” you say and she takes the shot, sinking the ball. Julia and Leanne golf clap politely.

“Wow.” You look at Sam. “Centre pocket.”

“Centre pocket,” he chews ruefully.

Sarah leans against the table and asks “You gonna try for the centre pocket too Sam?”

“Jesus fuck,” he shakes his head.

“Forfeit!” Dean pops out from behind his brother. “I forfeit!”

Sam throws his cue on the table. “Sounds good.”

Sarah grins and bounces, steps right up to Sam’s chest and they glow at each other as his hands slide around her waist. She reaches up, him ducking for her, and whispers in his ear. You see his gaze darken, jaw and arm muscles flexing, and he nods thoughtfully.

You walk over to Dean gesturing towards the couple, and he knows to pull the room key from his pocket already.

“You sure?” Sam checks.

“Yeah,” you say. “Got it covered.”

Dean wonders what you mean and you give him your best “tell you later” face.

You don’t really notice Sam and Sarah leave.  Dean has sat himself at the table, with his back to Julia and Leanne, and seems to be having a good think about something, again, pumping his jaw behind a smile too small to read. All it does is make you fume and kick the carpet.  You lean on the table beside him, wondering about telepathy spells you can turn on and off, and slowly realise you can hear Julia and Leanne talk.

“I think I’m done with men, Lenny.  Sam’s blown out my scale and I’m not sure there are any good ones left anyway.”

“Ugh, I gave up years ago,” Leanne moans and pokes at the peanuts in her bowl.  “Did you see me? With my stuffed door stopper cat tonight?  How goddamned sad am I?”

“Will you stop it?!” Julia pops.  “ _You_ started the chanting.   _You_ are the best woman I know.   If you’d just let people enjoy who you are…  You’re better than you think.”

Dean glances at you and you fix your gaze on your fingers.

“Meanwhile, I’m actually playin’ the field,” Julia sighs.  “And I’m still striking out.”

“Of _course_ you aaare!” Leanne leans and you and Dean frown your eyebrows at each other curiously.

Julia says what you’re thinking. “Fuckin, what?”

“It’s just, Jelly, I see how good you are, and there isn’t a single guy in all of Denver- seriously-”

“Lee-”

“No, you’ve fucking dated them all and they suck!”  Leanne snaps.  “None of them have been good enough for you!  As your best friend, it is my duty to consider all your boyfriends as out of their league.  But I’m not lyin’ either.”  She pops another peanut in her mouth.

There’s no good window to break into the chat with goodbyes.  You feel stuck here, being polite and uncomfortable, for the moment at least.  Dean’s started picking at his bottle, chewing his lips and adjusting himself on his seat.

Julia rests her forehead in her hand, eyebrows pulled up as she stares at the floor for help.  “Lee,” she says bewildered.  “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Leanne shrugs.  She’s getting nervous.  “We’re just up to the truthy part of the night.”

You glance at Dean, who’s concentrating on the beer label, listening hard.  There’s a beat of silence, where you should cut in and go, but you can’t.  Something’s happening, you’re sure, and it feels too important to break it.

“You know,” Julia says gently.  “I ‘member last New Year’s Eve.”  She looks at Leanne staring at a corner pocket, nibbling the inside of her cheek.  “I’s with that Andrew.  And I kissed you ‘cause I didn’t want you left out on New Year’s Eve.”

Leanne takes a big sigh, moving her tongue around while it feels fat from drink and peanut salt.  “Jesus fuck… look at us huh?”

“I know.”  Julia grumbles, sliding on her elbow way too far.  Her boobs rest on the tabletop.  “The whole fuckin’ everyone we know thinks we’ll end up together just because we’re besties and single.  Should do it just’a shut ‘em up.”

You and Dean look at each other, like _Oh wow_.  

Leanne has started to blush and look a little lost.  She’s slumped on her stool, unsure of where things are at.  Neither of them are concerned with you while you pretend you’re invisible.

“Okay,” Julia sits up and puts her hands on the table.  “Let’s do this, Lenny.  Kiss me,” she says and starts to stack glasses and tidy up the peanut wrappers, preparing the space with her loose, drunken hands.

“What?!” Leanne peeps.

You make an urgent face at Dean and slide into the seat opposite him so he’ll block your view.  You both tuck yourself small on your stools and pretend you’re not listening in like everyone else in the room.  A couple near the wall are leaning and chatting, furtive glances giving away their interest.  Across the pool table, a middle-aged woman stares at the floor likes its fathoms deep, her chin resting in her fist while she smiles tightly and listens too.  Her partner glares at the wall like someone’s put tin foil on his head.

“I kissed you; your turn,” says Julia, shifting in her seat to ready, brushing down her hair and sitting tall. “Come on, let’s see if there’s anything. I am drunk enough.”

Beyond Dean’s head you can see Leanne looks heartbroken, almost shattered with panic.  She swallows, pale and nervous, and stands.  You lay your forearm across the table, knuckles down, asking for Dean to hold your hand.  He hooks his fingers with yours, warm, dry and meaty, looking as worried as Leanne, and wonders at your exhilaration and hope.

Julia doesn’t notice how Leanne’s hands have no direction or that her feet are off centre.  She just watches her friend stand in front of her and smiles broadly, gives a little nod and slurs, “Okay.  Le’ss go.”

Leanne stares at Julia’s lips and you squeeze Dean’s fingers, possibly too hard because he shuts his eyes tight.

You don’t watch.

Leanne leans forward.  A moment passes and you hear a little snapping sound, and then she leans back…

“… _Lee!_ ”

“What?!”

“I’ve had longer kisses at funerals! Just-”

“Well I don’t _know_!”

“Uuugh!”  Julia’s hands slide up Leanne’s jaw, into her hair, and she pulls her forward, right between her knees and into a kiss.  It’s like watching a ball go up in the air and come down again, all in slow motion.  They breathe in. Leanne’s eyebrows go up and Julia’s go down and they both slump into each other, their softness meeting much like their lips did.  Leanne’s fingers cling onto Julia’s shoulders and you notice how Julia pushes her belly forward for the contact, how Leanne squeezes harder when she does.  They let go of each other, let the hands slide away, and spend long seconds staring at each other for the moment of truth.

This time Dean’s squeezing your hand, his eyes still closed, tight with anticipation.

“It wouldn’t suck,” Leanne starts, almost stunned, “if that happened again.”

“ _Oh Lee_ ,” Julia thumbs her cheek, “I _really_ want that to happen again.”

Leanne nods, overcome with emotion, and lets Julia hug her close and pressing.  “I care about you so much,” she says.  “And more. So much more.”

Dean’s brow crushes down, but you can’t tell why.  You clench your jaw at the mystery.

“Me too,” Julia replies, and rubs Leanne’s back.

“I don’t know what to do with it.”  Leanne’s voice is small and muffled in Julia’s collar.  Julia squeezes Leanne and kisses her cheek, assuring her with “Whatever we like, Lenny.”

Dean relaxes, deflates, and starts rubbing his thumb over your fingernail as he holds your hand, thinking hard about you don’t know what.

You see the woman across the pool table.  She’s beaming at her husband, his upside down smile all _Right then_ , and he cracks a grin when she nudges him with her foot.  The couple at the wall have seamlessly continued their conversation with fresh smiles on their faces.

Dean stands, gesturing for you to follow, and collects his jacket.  

“Hey, ho, hi there!” he says, pretending to come upon the women unawares.  “You two okay?  Gotta get your water down before the tears start.”

“A-huh, mhmm,” Leanne backs off Julia, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hand, sniffing it all away. “Oh you know, just, being drunk.”  Julia rubs circles on her back and she leans into it.

“No shame in that,” Dean smiles and pats Leanne on the shoulder, pausing significantly, like she just bought her first car or something.

“We need to go,” you say.  “But it was lovely to run into you guys.”

Leanne thumps into you for a completely different kind of hug, something grateful and important, groaning “Oh god, uh m’god, thank god for you, huh?  Thank goodness.”  

Julia is right behind her, waiting her turn, and rocks you side to side saying “Oooh, shouldn’t do that too much.”

Dean takes your hand, side stepping towards the door already, nodding and waving as you go.  You try to be polite and hide it but you’re wondering what’s the rush.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia and Leanne are inspiring, but it couldn’t possibly, not once, not for you, be as simple as that.

Out the front door and into the car park, Dean’s taking steps as long as your gait will allow, but you still skip to keep up.  “Why were you so worried about Leanne?” Your voice bounces as you go.

“I just didn’t want her to screw it up, you know?”

“Julia wanted it,” you say.  “The only way she could’ve screwed it up would be by not kissing her.”

He pulls up at his car, puts his hand in his pocket for the keys.  You stand beside him and watch him look over Baby’s roof, out across the empty spaces as he licks his lips, tugs on them with his teeth, and breathes like he’s about to say something.  Seconds pass and nothing happens, and he looks down a moment before you squeeze his hand for some eye contact.

 _What’s up?_ ask your eyebrows.

Dean does more meaningful, undefinable gazing…  “The silence doesn’t work like it used to,” he says with a crooked smirk.

“Which silence do you mean?”

He swallows, and looks at you, hesitating, and finally you crack.

“ _Come_ _on_ Dean! Say what you’re thinking!” you snap.  “Which silence do you mean?  The one where we couldn’t hear each other or the one where we didn’t speak?”

“Did I get it wrong?” he says, quick and cutting across the tail of your words.  “I thought- Did I hear that you care for me?  Like that?”

You blink, trying to sort out which of your thoughts you’re going to say first, a few of them still dedicated to the frustration of linear communication.  As you think, and Dean waits in his boots, you see, at the neckline of his t-shirt, a shadow you hadn’t noticed before.  You pinch the cotton and tug it down and there is your collar, resting below a bobbing Adam’s Apple.

“What’s that?” you breathe, and look up at him.  “What is that?”

Dean puts his lips near you ear, rubbing his cheek bone against you.  “Did you hear it from me too?”

“Hear what?” You stare at the collar against his skin, still clutching the shirt.

“Because I wasn’t holding back.  I could nuzzle into your neck.  Lay on you and smell your skin, feel your hands on me, watch you.”

You push and pull too, your head against his, and stretch the t-shirt from his shoulders. His hands press on your back, below your shoulder blades, and you step into him. The contact rolls around, brows and cheeks, his breath over your ear and your warmth together, dragging the texture and affection over each other.

He leans back, looking you in the eye so you can see he means it.  “I loved every second of being tied to you like that, being yours. Even if I was a goddamn cat.”

You let him put his temple to yours again and he holds you there, against him, like he can send you his thoughts with contact. “You were a beautiful cat,” you say, “and I was proud that you were mine.”

He rocks his head, rolls you close enough for eyelashes to tangle. “I feel like I still am, Y/N.” Suddenly your noses nudge together and he kisses you. It’s light and soft, the _yesno_ of it making you gasp; then he reaches for you again, a kiss that’s warm and firm, like a full stop.  It’s too good, too tantalising; you lose your balance in it. Your eyes, once open, don’t leave his lips and you lean up and pull him down to kiss him back.

This time it holds and grows into something with tasting licks and open want, lips melded and both of you turning your heads so you can stay close and get closer.  He’s large around you, his heat leaning over you, and you just want to tuck yourself into his jacket and fall on something soft.

The threads in his shirt collar start to give and his fingertips press in reply.   _Yes_ , you think.   _This_.

The quiet is broken by the snap of your kiss finishing, tongue itching, ready for more.  You feel ready to climb into him.

“Hey, the motel room,” he says, lips slack like they’re numb.  “You made a face before-”

“Claire gave us some money,” you say, as steadily as you can, distracted by his mouth.  “With instructions to indulge ourselves at a hotel.”  You look up at him, watch him swallow.  

“You… you wanna do somethin’ with that?  Tonight?”

“We can’t go back to our room,” you say, thinking of your friendship and something about being good.  “We could… make bigger decisions later.”

Dean nods thoughtfully, his gaze running that trinity of attraction - eye, eye, lips… eye, eye… lips.  “…Very sensible.”

You look back at the collar.  Maybe he forgot it was there when he changed, maybe he was in a hurry.  But he’s not excusing it, or explaining himself… One of your fingers hooks into the leather and Dean sways your way, a long blink betraying that he made no mistake wearing this.

You pull again, and slide your fingers into his hair, fingertips grazing his scalp, and this time there’s no hesitation, no holding back.  He steps into it, crushing you in his arms, palms pressing and teeth bumping and when your tongue presses against his, he hums and, you swear, there’s a purring in your mind.  Your want for it forms a flavour in your mouth; you want to feel it through you, something consuming and whole-bodied.

 _Yes_. You hear it, behind your ears somewhere.

“Mmm.”

_Want you._

“Dean?”

_Yes. This, God.  Want. You me._

“Dean!”

Your palm on the bolt of his jaw, with the other splayed on his ribs, pushes enough so you can look in his eyes and check if he heard. “Did I-? Was-?”

No. He’s blank, curious.

“Listen.” You pull him towards you, eyes shadowed but open as you make contact again, wet and tasting. _I miss you_.

Dean stops the kiss, his gaze flitting over the curves of your face in the streetlamp’s light. He leans back down the short distance between you, places himself against you and reaches that quarter inch it takes to seal your lips together, watching.

 _Mmissyou too_ , you hear. It’s firm, and deep, at the back of your skull and the note of it thrums familiar and comforting. A sigh falls out of you like the relief of addiction slaked, and you entwine yourself into him, tasting what you want. _I missed you too_ , he repeats. You hum back, asking for more.  He says nothing, at least for a while, but after a few seconds you can feel his attention, how it’s focused on your lips, your size and feel, the pressure between you, the relief.

 _Relief_ , you think, finally recognising what he meant.

 _Yes, relief,_ he presses. _You relieve_.

In the cool crisp air, there’re just the sounds of fabric moving, skin brushed and breath pushed, his voice in your mind is now clear - even his silence is him - and you start to think of future times.  Back in the bunker, in the library, by your bedroom door-

Dean steps closer again, starting to push you off your ground, and the kiss begins to race ahead.  It’s his hands, brushing, stroking over you, pulling and hurrying, his desire to please-

To please.   _Wait_.

 _Yes_.

“Dean, stop, wait,” you say, and it’s like he’s jolted awake, letting the kiss go.  He seems to fall forwards, his cheek sliding over yours, holding on to catch himself, and puffs into your hair.

You puff too, and pat to calm, for both of you, trying to unravel this feeling and put words to this hesitation.

“We shouldn’t start like this,” you whisper.  “We shouldn’t start with this… condition layered… our relationship…  we should, you know, begin as we mean to go on.”

Dean presses his lips together and thunks his forehead to your neck, pushes his breath out his nose.  “Hmmm.”

“You’re holding me so hard-”

“I know, but, it's… proportionate.”

You pull yourself away, ducking yourself out from under him. His arms reach to keep hold of you but you collect his hand in yours, taking it from your face. “It’s just… If this works, still, again, whatever,” you mean the telepathy, “then other parts like… my control… It might be me… making you-”

“Hey, no,” - he squeezes your fingers, “- it’s not that. I’m not-”

“My point is we don’t know,” you say, more clearly, “and it’s changing. We should at least wait for it to settle.”

Dean’s mouth moves in little pinches, thoughts dimpled as they begin, and he clears his throat as he stares past your shoulder and becomes frustrated. “Yes,” he concedes.  He twists his chin in annoyance and munches out his words with a clenched jaw. “Yesh, dat isz probably what wre sshould do.”

“You can’t be sure I’m not wishing you into this,” you add quietly.

“I really don’t think you are,” he tells you, like you’re having a chat in parentheses, like your minds used to. “Wait, you really want this?”

You speak quietly too, and in your panic you start to hide those feelings again, hedging things back to safety. “I liked you being my cat, being mine.  And how would you know who started it anyway?”

He does a half shake of his head and tries to think of the weak point in this circular argument.

“It’s not normal though, is it?” you hiss. “It’s… _odd_.” There’s just something about the witchcraft that makes you uneasy.  It’s one thing to have a telepathic connection for a while, but if he does want to be with you for more than a week, intimately, romantically, you’ll just have to start again in five night’s time.

And what if, afterwards, it’s a whole lot less?… You’re not sure your self-esteem could take it.

“So, we are going to go to a swanky hotel, together, just us, and get a good night’s rest?” he checks dryly.  It’s clearly not his first preference.

You break a sigh, slumping at him like _Don’t do that_. “Not helping,” you scowl.

 _So sue me,_ says his shrug.

“How about we go for a mid-range motel and save the rest of the money for later?”

Dean pulls himself back and lets you go.  There’s a long pause as he squints thoughtfully, then opens the car door in a gesture of compromise. It’s not acceptance, mind you, because he closes it at firmly as responsible car ownership will allow.

He grumbles to himself and tightly flips his keys as he heads round the front of the car. “Yeah, sure, only felt like the kiss of the century but let’s go sleep separately, by ourselves, for a whole night-”

“What?” you call, ducking to look at him through the windscreen.

“Nothing!” He gets in and smiles as hard as he can. “Nothing at all.”

“Stop _ii-h-hiit_ ,” you plead. “I’m not saying we can’t talk or anything. It’s just we’ve been drinking, and the adrenaline, and it’s _magic_ , and-”

“No, it’s ok,” he holds up a hand and closes his eyes. “You’re right. I’m being a jerk. We haven’t even finished three days of this and it’s been changing the whole time. Right? You’re right. The witch is right. ‘S all good, Y/N.”

Dean pulls out of the parking lot and on the edge of a nice part of town he sees a sign that says “Denver Moteliere - ⅘ star”.

He lets you book the room - a king double for him and a single for you - and waits for you, leaning against the car. By the time you’ve returned his mood has darkened somewhat, but you don’t try to change him.

It’s not quite what you expected.  The fridge is too warm for ice but cool enough for mould.  There’s a pixie-sized patch of bright green moss in the corner above the bath, and the mirror is as much rust as reflection.  Some of the tiles don’t match and the shower curtain hangs by half its loops.

When you come back out to the main room, Dean’s holding up the single butterknife over the open ‘cutlery’ drawer.

“Is this karma for hexing Sam’s dick?” you wonder. “I didn’t mean that. Just wanna say that out loud, just in case.  I do _not_ want Sam’s dick hexed.”

Dean huffs at you, but doesn’t reply, then leans over a little, inspecting the cluster of power outlets by the sink.

Without realising, you find yourself counting the stains on the floor, some of them cigarette burns, some of them more mysterious, and one of them, half under Dean’s bed, has such an unusual shape that you follow it around to the window side and tilt your head, trying to understand it.  Maybe someone killed a cow?

Through the flimsy curtains you notice the motel’s sign again, gaudy and buzzing, and wonder if it really does say Denver and not Dewer, or even Danver, considering the font.

“Holy shit.”

You turn from the window and see Dean standing on the other side of your bed with the drawn back covers in his fist. There’s a dark brown stain in the middle of the mattress, the shadow clear under the very-off-white sheet. “I noticed a dent in the bed…” He stares at the cavity and looks up at you, blank and indifferent, and remarks “Well that’s going to be uncomfortable!” then throws the covers back where he found them.

You watch him stalk into the bathroom and slam the door, and turn back to the neon sign suspended in the dark.  The “⅘ star”, you decide, may very well mean _four fifths_ of a star.

When Dean appears again - quite soon thanks to the weak and paltry hot water supply - you’re in bed (which is dry, so good enough), thankful that Sam went with Sarah so you and Dean have your pyjamas.  You have the pillow tucked under your head, facing the bathroom and not his bed, and wait for sleep.

Dean gets himself under his stain-free covers with the least amount of fuss and lays on his side, looking at your silhouette so easily seen thanks to the street light and pathetic curtains.   He stares at the curve of your hip, trying to relax and remember your sensible decision, but he can’t focus on anything but the vacancy in his arms.   _You should be here,_ he thinks.

But it is a very strong feeling, he notices, and he can’t really be sure whether it’s a feeling let loose or something newly grown, nor whether it’s truly all him.  He sucks in the biggest breath he can, opens his jaw and releases his brow, making an effort to at least be less annoyed.

After a minute or so he can see that not only does your mattress have a dent, it dips too.  Your waist has quite the kink, and your butt tilts up.  It’s a sassy shape, and the blankets are smooth over your figure… He rolls onto his back and sighs.

“Is your bed comfortable?” you ask quietly.  

Dean clears his throat, shifts a bit and, using a light casual tone, answers “Yeah. It’s awesome… s’like it knows me.”

“What?”  You try to sit up, flopping and punching the bed to get yourself turned and say “Are you fuckin serious?” He hears your throat break _khho_ at the injustice.

“Isn’t yours?”  

Cheeky shit.  No, it isn’t.  “No body is meant to bend like this!”

“Well, this is a king,” he leans up on his elbow and gestures to the space beside him.  “There’s room for you, if you want.”

You fling back the covers and mutter “You’re going to have to carry me out anyway if I don’t.  Uh God, I’m sore already.”

He shuffles back and watches you settle in, his arm over the blankets as he lays down again. You lay facing him and get the pillow comfy.  Then adjust the pillow, and wriggle again, finding your place.  Then you retuck the covers and pick up your hip again for a new spot, distracted by the- seriously, there are strange shapes around your thighs.  “This isn’t comfortable at all.”

“Really?” he says with mild interest.  “It’s comfortable over here.”

“Stop it.”  You whisper it, wishing you could still command him like before.

“Stop what?” he answers, too fast and light.  You blink at him across the darkness and see his chest fill and drop, tight and caught.  

“It’s witchcraft,” you tell him, crisp across the space.

“Not all of it.”

“It doesn’t matter.  Leave it alone.”

“I can’t.  It’s _bewitching_.”

“For fuck’s sake, De-”

“I don’t want to.”

…Who can control a fucking cat.

Dean rolls onto his back and offers his hand between you, waving you in.  Tentatively, you slide your fingers into his palm and hold his hand for the second time that day.  It is, admittedly, terribly comforting, and safety and warmth washes up through your shoulder. He adjusts himself and you see his sleepshirt pulled, the collar revealed again, resting against the tendon of his neck.  You’re sure he can see you looking at it.  It’s like a metaphor for all your problems and promise.

It’s not a kiss, and your hands are dry, but you’re sure you can feel something again, a mood, at the least - something about longing, or belonging.  It’s defiant and sure, and bewitching in its own way.  Maybe you’re saying it for him, maybe it’s what you’re calling for, but he’s holding you so firmly that you decide it can be figured out in daylight, when you can see and think better, and you let the warmth spread, let him squeeze the rise of your thumb with his hold.

You close your eyes, breathe deep, and hear him relax too, and spend your last waking moments pretending that the rest of your body is as comfortable as your right hand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s doing his very best to be okay with the hiatus between you, but it isn’t easy. Not when you get too close. And not when there’s another hunt on the horizon.

You wake to a strange warmth.  Your neck is damp from… breath.  And your- _holy shit!_

You jerk your head back, realising Dean’s nose was between your lips, your teeth even.  He’s been breathing against you, and breathing your breath, for you don’t know how long.  Is that a cat thing?

His head is tilted awkwardly, right back, with his chin long so he could get close to you, and he’s belly-down, your hand still locked in his under his chest.  He snores lightly, content, with that peacefulness the spell seems to have given him.

You feel bad.  You know you’re being sensible, but you still feel bad keeping him from something he wants.  Maybe he couldn’t help himself from being pissy last night, but it only proves your point about how this thing is affecting his behaviour.

And maybe the spell is what’s making you feel bad because- _No_.  You shake your head.   _One loop around is enough._

It’s almost bloodless surgery to get yourself out from under Dean’s grip, and when he half-wakes and tightens his fist you have to say “No, I need the bathroom,” for him to surface enough to let you go.  He rolls over, twisting and curling like he has no lumbar spine and settles back into deep sleep.

You actually put one fist in the other, just to busy your fingers while they remember the indulgence of patting his fur a few days ago, the way he curled his back into your fingertips while they rubbed the muscle.  You can’t have anything like that now.

You pull on some clothes and go out for food.  When you return he’s post-shower, craning himself for the un-rusted patch of mirror, and licking his fingers to get some part of his hair to stay put.

“So Sam’s already texted to figure out a pick up time,” he calls, and comes back into the terrible, rank room.  You’re tearing open bags for make-shift plates because you’ve looked at the plates here and they’re covered in something that’s mostly protein.  “What’s the bet he couldn’t get it up last night.”

You sit and bite into a doughnut.  “Why would you say that?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs and grabs one too, dropping into the chair opposite.  “Between your hex and the text-”

“I took that back!” you muffle.

He shrugs again, inspecting his food.  “Bit late though.”  He takes a bite and chews loosely.

“Are you still shitty with me?”

Dean looks straight at you, flat and dark, and collects his coffee from the table.  “No.”

You scowl back, and rip another chunk off the cinnamon Not-so-good-now goodness.  “I seriously doubt I have that sort of power.”

“You do,” Dean insists, and juts his chin your way.  “Bet you it worked.”

“Did not!”

“Whaddya bet?”

“I’ll wash your car if Sarah was anything short of slurring her words and walking like a cowboy.”

Dean smirks and slumps back in his seat.

“What if I’m right?” you pout.  “What if you’re wrong and he’s fine?”

He snaps his teeth shut and starts to think, then loses the better part of a minute thinking harder because there’s so little he’d find a chore if he did it for you.  Change your oil, clean your weapons, rub your feet…  Nope, nope and n- _Wait_.

“My laundry,” you offer.  “For a month.”

“Deal.”

…

Sam is good.  Sam is happy.  Sam is practically six-foot-six of bleary-eyed, languid Samtastic man.  He moves like soft taffy, smiles like he’s been hit with a feather pillow.

“You mind if I take the backseat?” He slides in, slumps back, and spreads his knees.  “I am beat.  A-huhuh.”

You look back at him, agape, near laughing.  

Sam smirks a gooey smile and shyly drawls, “She gave me her number.”

“You mean she _did_ you a number,” you say.  “Jesus Sam, what the hell’s holding you together?”

“Ahuhuh.”  He slips sideways and gets comfy laying on his back, flopping an arm over his face.

Dean twists his fingers over the steering wheel, pushing himself down into the seat shoulders first.  Then he thinks to ask, “And how’s Sarah?  She walkin’ okay?”

“Yeah, she walks _fine_ ,” Sam smiles.

“Not talking with a slur, or anything?”

“I didn’t give her a stroke, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”  Sam’s too happy to be offended.

“Are you kidding me?” you ask Dean, and he grins a chinny grin at you, dead-eyed and smug.  “You are fucking kidding me.”

“If only you’d bet on simply ‘satisfied’.”

You cross your arms and thump into your seat.  You’re quite happy you put a stop to things, if this is how he’s going to be.

…

Six hours later you’re home and fed and stomping to the garage hose with a bucket, sponge and towel.

You’re fine with washing the car, in theory.  You all use it, and would all drive it, if Dean would share.  It’s fair enough.  But railed into it on a technicality?  This car is gonna get cleaned back to 1968.

You start at the tail and by the time you’re leaning over the windscreen, the pace is half what it was, the steady work of it calming you down some. In fact, it’s almost out of your system, until Dean stalks into the garage.

“Hey Dean.”

He’s careful and slow, slinking around the side, and leaning against the wall.  “You still mad at me?” he checks.

You look at him for a full two seconds and let that be your answer.

Dean makes his way to the wall behind you, slumping onto a milk crate, and starts playing with the hose, flicks it side to side and twists it so it bends and flops.  He watches that instead of you.

“You still mad at _me?”_ you ask.

He shrugs, as though you can see him, and pouts… “I’m not mad.”

“You’re sulking.”

“I am not _sulking_ ,” he looks up at you.

“Oh then _what_ is it?  Seriously, you have been so pissy, ever since you woke up.”  You come around to his side of the car and start spreading the soap over the glass and down the hood, water flicking and bubbles building as you work up steam again.  “You pouted about Sam bein’ happy, scoffed at having to have apricot pie and not pecan,” - Dean quishes his face for a second at that, because pecan - “and literally _kicked a tyre”_ \- you look over your shoulder at him - “because Sam went to the bathroom when you wanted to leave.”

Dean sees you glance at him then, but his sight slips down to your butt, catching on it jittering about as your washing becomes more vigorous with your words.  Just the sight of something moving like that is tantalising enough.  He shifts his feet, wiggles on the crate like he might get up, but then realises what he’s doing and puts it away with a blink and a shiver.  

Then you drop down, spreading your knees as you squat in front of the wheel to wash the side, squeeze the froth over the chrome, and he feels like he’s going to get detention for looking… but your glistening feet and legs, wet patches on your clothes, suds oozing over your hands and dripping onto the floor between your thighs… he starts turning his head away but his eyes don’t let go until the muscles hurt.

“Gimme the hose.”  You bounce up and stand over him with your hand out.  “Please.”

Dean swallows his fat tongue and holds up the tubing, lets the nozzle flop within reach, and you snatch it out of the air.

The spray slides over his car and mists the air, her black glean downright luscious under the water and lights.  He can’t watch you do this any more, not with your concentrated pout and that trigger finger and the wet legs and-

Dean stands, fast enough to see a few stars, and begins to leave.

“Are you gonna get out of this funk?”

“I’m _trying_.”  He turns, pleading at you.  “I swear to God, my brain is saying all the right things:  She’s right; it’s only day three, it’s magic, all a’that.  It’s just my gut,” he gestures, then starts  moving his hands like there’s a cushion over his shoulders, “and up here, there’s somethin’.  And my skin-”

You stop hosing for a minute.  “I get it.  I do.  I feel something like that too.”

“The same like that?”

“No it’s-” You look down and think about the parts of you that turn to him, and you pat your chest, right over the heart.  “It’s here, and here.”  Your palm settles on your belly, over your solar plexus, and Dean sees how your fingers curl in.  “You can’t be shitty with me for another four days though.  One of us will have to stay somewhere else.”

Dean rocks sideways a little, muttering petulantly, “I can be shitty if I want.”

_PSHSHSHT!_

“Hey!!”  He yelps and jumps out of the spray at his feet.  “What the hell?!”

“You have to cheer up!” you bark, and try not to smile.

“No!” He stands there like he doesn’t care about water.  “Cats hold grudges, remember?”

 _PSH-SHSHSHT!_  You squirt his feet and he hops, scoots backwards.

“Hey! Fuck off!”  Angry brow, pink dimples.

“Isn’t this what they do?” _PSHT!_  “Spray the cat?” _PSHSHT-PSHT!_

“Don’t!” He dodges and defends against the mist, palms out to you, squinting.  “Don’t make me take that hose!”

“Then stop sulking!” you insist, smiling with just a hint of kindness…

Dean’s eyes sparkle, and he’s reluctant to give in, but he misses you.

_PSHT!_

“Right! That’s it!”  Dean bends around the jet, and you twist away, double-chinning it outta there but careful on the wet floor.  He snatches your elbow and reaches around you, grabbing the hose by the tube. _Gonna get you!_ Both of you are going slow on the slippery floor - _Ahshit! Shitshit!_ \- so he bumps into the back of you. _Tie you up with a hose!_ You’re breathless giggles - _Yi-eyee-Jesus!!_ \- and he’s chuckles and bit lips - _Get- come’ere-_ dropping the hose when he can hug you against his chest - _There, fuckin no more trouble from you_ \- arms crossed over your body and wet hands pinning your slippery elbows down - _Yyyomygod!  Oshit! Big arms_ \- and his breath is hot on your ear,   
_Your smell, you’re_  
Stronghard He’s always  
Wrigglin’ in my arms, you  
Feel careful for me  
Feel. Warm. Skin, here, just, lean m’mouth  
Ho-oh-God. Please.  Curve- “Ah! Dean!”

Dean’s hands unlock like pneumatic cuffs and you stumble forward out of his hold, out of the water, grabbing your neck where his lips had pressed against you, where his tongue rasped over your skin and woke you up.

He’s pacing away, still curled over for the way your spine was tucked up into his body.  He wipes his mouth, checks his fingers for no reason, then comes back, stopping short of the puddle.  “Okay so water is a conduit.”  He pulls himself straight, hands on hips and nods seriously.  “Good to know.”

“Facts are fun,” you agree, managing your breath in the hopes your heart will follow suit, watching to see how he feels.

Dean stares at you, licks in a lip for a thoughtful chew, and lets his gaze drop down to the wet floor.  “So not normal.”

“Yeah, that was a lot, a lot of um, brain… stuff,” you say, pointing between yourselves, and Dean nods, eyebrows high.  

You rub your arms where he was, rubbing away the vacancy, and try to think of words to fill the space.  “We could share a bath, you know, probably figure out the purpose of life with all that… stuffing.”  You huff a bit, for the joke, and wonder why you thought that would be funny.

“Y/N… I’m… pretty sure we’d end up with the answer we started with.”  He’s frowning, but those dimples are back again.

“Dean,” you scold, “the purpose of life is not sex.”

Ugh, those lips.  That half-way smirk always makes you want more, to just watch him talk and laugh.  He shakes his head as he speaks, cutting across the air with his hand.  “ _None_ of the species agree with you.”

Dean smiles, and he’s easy, he’ll be fine, but still he tilts away with a sorry in his eyes and the Tucked Lips of God Dammit and gets himself out of the garage.

He avoids you for the rest of the day, and into the next, and you dream of big, wet hugs and chuckles in your ear.

…

You’re cleaning up your breakfast dishes when Sam finds you.  “We got a hunt.”

Oh thankgod. “Oh yeah? What of?”

“Shape shifters.”

Fuck. No.

Sam opens the fridge to dig for road trip snacks.  “Near Cedar Rapids.  DEAN!!”

That’s only 5 hours away, which means you could be there tonight.

“There’s two of them,” Sam tells you, “and-”

Dean appears, saying “Ya? Wassup?”

“Two shape shifters near Cedar Rapids,” Sam reports and disappears into the fridge again.

You look at Dean, sharing a moment of truth, and he speaks first.  “Uh Sammy?”

Sam pulls himself out of the shelving, flicking his hair back as he checks the date on a few cans of energy drink.  “Yeah?”

Dean looks guilty before he even starts.  “We can’t do a shapeshifter job.”

“Why not?” Sam looks at you, seeing as Dean is too.

“We still have a telepathic-connection-thingy,” you confess.  “It’s not what it was, but it might change, so.”

Dean chimes in to back you up.  “Yeah, I don’t think meeting someone who might role play one of us, with this, would be a good-”

“Well of course not!” Sam barks at Dean.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Well you were all happy and fuck-drunk,” Dean shrugs, “and it’s…  been weird.”

“It just didn’t come up,” you add.

Sam sighs and reluctantly forgives you both, grumbling “Let me figure something out.”  He strides out of the room, leaving you and Dean to face each other.

Seconds pass.

“He’ll be okay,” Dean assures you.

“Oh, yeah.”  You’re not too worried.  More seconds pass, and somehow you’re struggling for a topic of conversation.

“You okay?”

“Yep… you?”

Dean looks to the side a second, and says “Yep,” and nods a lot.

“Are you the same?” you ask, which makes him blink a bit because that’s quite a different question.

“Uh, it’s.  It’s a little bit more,” he admits.  “I keep checking where you are.”

You nod a bit, chew the inside of your cheek, and shrug “Probably normal, for this.”

And he nods too.

“Well, I’m gonna be in my r-”

“Okay! We have a swap,” Sam’s back, loud and pragmatic.  “Jerry and Pete are going to cover the shapeshifters, we’ve got their vampires in Ogallala.”

“Ogallala?!”

“Nebraska.  Four hour drive.”  Sam grabs the cans off the bench and he and Dean have gone again before you can ask a question.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are still changing between you and Dean, and you’re both struggling to get it right. But Sam’s about to find out exactly what this is - first hand.

In the car, on the way to Ogallala, you begin sitting behind Dean.

“So it is O-GALL-la-la? Oogal-LA-la?-”

“Oh-ga-LA-luh,” says Sam.  “It’s Lakota Sioux.”

“Cool,” Dean nods.

Sam flashes a quick smile his way but goes back to his notes, and that seems to stifle conversation from then on.

You take out your book and read as hard as you can, but the hum of Dean… it’s not a feeling, more like a noise, and somehow your knees can hear it.  It creeps up your thighs at a rate of about an inch an hour.  At some point you realise you’re trying to blow it away with big, forced breaths of relaxation every time your restart a paragraph, so you slide yourself over to the far corner.

Dean almost turns around in his seat, even though the rear view mirror shows it, and looks at both where you were and where you are.  Then his gaze is back on the road and slowly his forehead creases as he worries about why you want to be further away.

You look out the window and pretend not to notice.  You also try not to think of the way you want to hear him again, or feel him again, or have him talk to you.  You think that all your need and desire right now is a lie and affected, and you should just let it be, without attention, and hopefully if he stumbles across your thoughts they won’t be images of the sunny view rolling by when you were so happy to hear him think, or his collar as he lay beside you, or his warm breadth across your shoulders, or the way that consuming kiss made you crave the feel of his skin on yours, smooth and sliding from chest to knees…

This isn’t going very well at all.

At the motel room and throughout dinner, you manage a safe distance. During the stake out, too, you find sitting behind Sam is still quiet enough.  Every now and then, when you’re close but not touching, you listen for him but there’s nothing articulate, just the hum.

Then, during the hunt, you can see Dean is fighting to stay by you.  He starts talking like he’s holding his breath, coughing out words and shaking out his fists, as he hushedly explains his idea for attack.

“That sounds good,” Sam whispers as you all crouch behind the car, next to an industrial estate and its many corrugated-tin buildings.  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Dean shakes his head.  “It’s just the spell.  She’s at risk so I’m all-”

“Yeah, no okay,” Sam assures.  “I get it.  I’ll be with her.”

Dean’s quick glare at Sam’s chest says that damn well isn’t enough, but he says nothing. He’s been yelling in his own head about this for hours - _She’ll be fine!  Focus!  She’ll be fine!_ \- but he’s not about to tell Sam to stand down, even if it’s a fraction of what he’d prefer.

When you get inside, the numbers are as you expected, but the building is awkward.  You have two areas to manage.  The first is easy and open, the second, further back, is several rooms that include lots of spaces for ambush.

A few quick signals before you start, and it goes okay, it goes fine really.  It’s just that you get cut, on the back of your arm, and Dean runs over to grab the wound.  He’s panting so hard that your gasp goes unnoticed, but you certainly whimper at the rush of noise, a breathy, angry torrent of Dean swearing, his body whining high, all of him worried about your injury and how bad it could’ve been.  It’s as though that hum has been ramped up, amped up, and the muffler removed.

But there are more vampires to go, three hiding away or about to attack, and he’s stuck here, on you.  Reactively, you send your thoughts hard and loud: _Fight! Protect us!_

Dean’s mind stills and all you hear is breathing for a few seconds before he squeezes your arm and lets you go, turning and running at the doorway.  Sam races to catch up and you all bail in.

In the last room, after Dean has thrown himself at the first, and you and Sam collected the second in another room, a tall, cowardly vampire remains, puffed, tense and thinking.  There’s a large window behind him, and it looks single-paned.

You’ve gotten in there first, on point, edging your way into an ideal place for attack.  Sam’s behind you, focused on the vampire, however Dean glances at you every time you move, and the vampire recognises his distracted concern.

“You get close enough, girly,” he warns, “I’ll snatch ya.”  He looks at Dean and talks to him. “I’ll snatch ‘er.”

You don’t outwardly change, but Jesus that twists you.  He’ll be so worried, twitching from it.  Sam breaks a breath of annoyance and adjusts his grip.  He’s bleeding too, from his left shoulder, and not interested in anything being strung out.

None of you have anything to say, so the guy fills the nervous air with bravado.  “I will! I’ll rip into her neck and drink her blood, right here,” he says, and Sam makes a sound of disbelief.

“Or I’ll go through the window with her,” the vampire says, and grins at the reaction to that.  “Yeah.  She’ll get all ripped up.  A take-away.”

You reach around behind you, Sam letting your forearm tap on his since that’s as much response as he can give while holding his machete, but you wrap your bloodied fingers around his wrist.  Dean sees, and takes hold of Sam’s other forearm, striped with Sam’s blood, and as soon as the connection is made you can hear him- _Y/N?  Y/N-_ grim and growling over Sam’s internal _oh, oh God, hmm._ Dean’s barely holding onto control.   _You.  Come back._

Sam gasps, a kind of swallowed _guh,_ at the feeling of you asking Dean to calm, ordering his brother through him, through his own blood, but it doesn’t overwhelm him, not so much that he can’t talk.  “You don’t stand a chance asshole,” he says, half listening to the words in his veins.  “It’s not that big of a jump.  We’ll track you, catch you when you bleed out.”

 _I’m okay,_ you tell Dean firmly, trusting it gets through, steadying your own nerves to be strong for him.  You want him focused and thinking of himself.   _I’m really okay.  Go left for me.  Go left and high._

_Left and high._

You let Sam go, unaware of how he rocks at the release, then lift your machete and attack. Dean follows your lead, just as you asked.  You get there first, aiming low and long, drawing the vampire’s arms towards you, and Dean cuts off his head.

You see the body and head fall, take one breath, then let your weapon clatter to the floor and walk away, tears springing and chin creasing.  

Sam holds his cut shoulder and steps towards you a bit.  “Y/N?  You okay?”  

Dean is riveted to the spot, beside the corpse, pushing his arms down to keep still.

You turn around but can’t really see anything clearly.  “I’m so sorry!” You’re trying not to cry, but you sound like you already are.

Dean stands there, holding his weapon so hard it’s shaking, and watches you talk at his boots.

“I can’t believe I did that!  I sent you in here!” you cry.  “I sent you-!”

“Can I come over there?” he grits out.

You nod, “mm-hmm” and wait for him to take the three strides he needs to hold your arms and put his forehead to yours.

“It’s okay,” he says, firm and low.  “It’s okay.  That’s just what you shoulda done.”

You grab his jacket and talk through spit-wet lips. “I _ordered_ you Dean, to go throw yourself at something for me!”

“No, hey, it wasn’t that.”  He holds your head so you’ll look at him in blurry colours, and the blood on his palm smears over the skin before your ear.  The bass of him - _s’ok, s’good, you’re okay, okay, don’t-sad, come on_ \- it’s like a heat pack against the distress and after a while your _I’m sorry, sorry, I didn’t want you to- I want you safe, I’m sorry_ , it all slows down, rolls to a walk, and it’s like he’s urging you to listen to his heart for a moment, just breathe.  You listen and work on being still.

The beats pass, so steady and enveloping that you lose a patch of time.  

“I wasn’t reckless,” he says.  “I wasn’t seein’ red or anything.  You gave me focus.  I was- rattled, Y/N, worrying about you, distracted.  You did the right thing, okay?”

You listen and nod, then shake your head at your emotions.  “I just,” deep breath, in, and out, “I can’t-  I feel like I exploited you. This.  ‘Cause that’s what you do, you know?  And right now you’re doing it really hard.”

Dean sighs and slides his hands down to your shoulders again. He lifts his head so he can press his mouth to your forehead and you lean into it like sanctuary.  “Don’t forget okay,” he murmurs.  “This spell has me backflipping to look after you, be by you, but it’s a spell on you too.  You got a protector out of this.  You were just scared.  I was scared too.”

Slowly, he lets his head tilt down so his cheek is on your hair, then your temple, and you notice the quiet inside, both of you still whipped and listening for the other.  He leans back and watches you open salt-tight eyes and look at him.

He knows you’re beautiful, believes it through himself and long into his last day, but it’s not what he sees; it’s how he sees.  That sight is like a window, a filter lifted, showing him how you really feel, what it’s made of, and exactly how much he can help.  It’s like his eyes see your truth, because they believe you, believe in you, and it makes him tilt and blink, because you don’t think he can help you.  He doesn’t know how to tell you you’re wrong, without seeming hurt.

He busies himself with wiping the blood off your cheek with his cuff.

“You guys gonna be okay?” Sam’s still there, quiet and concerned.

“Yeah,” Dean says.  He releases your arm and takes a clear step back, and this time you can’t look at him because as much as you crave him in way you want kept secret, you also miss your friend and his hugs.  The distance hurts like your ribs are curling into your heart.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine.” You collect your machete from the floor and sniff for the last time.

“For the record,” Sam adds, “that was fucking amazing.”

…

You and Sam share the king double that night; Dean gets the regular double.  In the morning, he finds himself on top of the covers with his feet on the pillows and his head at the end.  He has a vague recollection of the half-waking moments he had during the night, semi-dream states when he slowly turned himself so he could see you better on the other side of the night stand.  Knowing you’re safe and in the same room is like turning down the dial on his whole system, enough to make him restful.

He stretches himself every which way and slips back into an easy shape, happy to watch you sleep.  He feels good.  You’re safe.  He did good.  He naps until he has to get up.

You wake next, eyes opening to Dean sprawled out and snoring in your line of sight.  It’s soothing to see him, as long as you don’t think of getting closer.  His eyes open when you start to rise.

“I’m gonna clean up and get some breakfast,” you say quietly.

Dean lifts his head and watches you, nose following you walking around him and disappearing in the bathroom.  He doesn’t move.

Once ready, somewhat refreshed, you head straight for the front door.  “Stay there,” you say.  “I’ll get coffee and stuff.  I’ll just,” you think to add, “I’ll just be down the street.”

“Okay,” he says, and you peek a quick smile as you go out the door.

You find a decent place for food and place your order.  While you wait for the coffees and pie and fruit you pull the paper from your pocket, the page you’ve been carrying for the past five days, and flatten it on the bench by your stool.

> Althea, knotweed, honeysuckle, eyebright.
> 
> Rogo te mecum esse, ego audite, protector tuus sum, et te reservabunt, et ego ero vobis maleficus septem diebus.
> 
> I beg you to walk/be with me, maintain me, hear me. I will shield you and keep you. I will be your witch. For seven days.
> 
> Ego sum apud te, ego protector tuus sum, arguam te audiunt, ego veniam quo vocas, ego sum qui pythones, tu mihi maleficus septem diebus.
> 
> I am with you.  I shield you, maintain you, hear you. I come when you call. I am your familiar spirit. You are my witch. For seven days.

You read through the text again.  It was imperfect when you and Sam made the words, and you still bristle at that word for witch being also _evildoer_.  Yet, it’s the intention that was worked into the deed.  You knew this, the proof of it being in Dean’s becoming a cat, and not a dog, when you thoughtlessly likened your chances to that of a kitten.

And now it seems to come at you with a storm of feelings, things you knew were there for you, but probably not for Dean.  It’s hard to know how much of that is the magic.  You can hear him think and feel.  The words of the spell didn’t ask for that either, but something did.

You look at your crumpled note, thinking it looks a lot like a grade-schooler’s attempt at senior calculus.

“Beyoncé?! Three long blacks for Beyoncé?”

You were fools, you think.  You could’ve done the whole thing so differently, and then Dean wouldn’t be so dangerously distracted during hunts.  And you wouldn’t feel so terribly guilty.

…

“You okay?”

Dean hadn’t noticed Sam sit up on his elbows - he was watching you go past the window to get coffee and hopefully pie.  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean shrugs, and gets himself sitting up.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“What?” Dean scoffs, waves it off. “No. It’ll pass in a few days.  It’s just.”  He concedes enough to sigh.  “It’s a lot.  And she’s worried about what it’ll do to us, or make us do,” he confesses, “so we’re keeping our distance and it’s just… a bit hard.  That way.”

“Well, ye-heah,” Sam’s chest bounces with the word. “Dude, I can tell!”

Dean rubs his face.  “That obvious huh?”

“Well, it was, but,” Sam sits up to talk, “that connection you guys have.  That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, but right now it’s only when we have wet contact.”  Dean says with curiosity but then thinks of how he doesn’t want to explain that discovery, and glances at Sam to check if he noticed.  “It’s uh, getting stronger again.  I can hear her, kinda.”

“Can she hear you?”

“No, that’s why I’m keeping my distance.”  Dean leans his elbows on his knees.  “I can’t hear words, but I’m getting moods, emotions.  If I brush up against her it’s a bit clearer, but mostly she seems worried, or curious, trying to find something out, so I don’t think she can hear me that well.  Not unless there’s water, or something.”  Dean gestures at Sam’s hands, referring to last night.  “And she seems to want to steer clear anyway because…” Dean waves his hands at the door, like that explains everything.

And of course Sam being Sam, he understands perfectly.  “Because you love her.”

“What?!  Fuck!  No!  Sam!!  _Ughhhh_ -” Dean rubs the heel of his hand into his forehead.  “I mean, okay, there’s… _something_.”

“Are you an idiot?”

Dean slices his flat hands down into the air before him, shaking them when he says, “The _spell_ is _fucking_ with everything-”

“Are you a goddamned _idiot?!”_

“Sam.  Just leave it, okay?”

“‘Cause I’m not an idiot.  I know what I felt between you two!” Sam’s got his arm open wide, like this is all he’s talking about, and Dean’s holding his head in his hands.  “Literally, _between_ you two!”

Dean bursts loud. “She doesn’t trust it! Okay?!”  He sits there waving at the same nothingness as Sam, trying to redefine it.  “She thinks the spell is making her want it and ordering me to feel it.”

Sam shuts his mouth and looks at his love-sick brother, who’s essentially amplified his feels for a week.  “The spell doesn’t say anything about love, or even affection,” Sam tells him. “It talks about protection and answering a call-”

“Yeah, _devotion_.”

Sam can’t believe that this isn’t clear to Dean.  He loses momentum and sighs into the empty seconds.  When he speaks again, it’s much kinder.  “I always thought you liked her anyway.”

Dean rests his head in his palm and looks at Sam like he’s going to say something helpful any minute now.

“Does she not have feelings for you too?”

“I thought she did, for a while… but I’m not sure.”  Dean dumps his chin in his hand and stares at the door, muttering, “I just know I want her, and she thinks we shouldn’t right now.”

Sam thinks and frowns, eventually nodding, “That’s probably very sensible.”

“Yeah, it’s really sensible.  Meanwhile,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his head, “we could be having sex with telepathy.”  He squints at Sam a moment, lets that sink in, and gets up for the bathroom.

Sam stares at the undefined space.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With only a few days left of the witch-familiar spell, you set your mind to protecting yourself and Dean from glamoured feelings and temptation. But your plans are thrown, of course, and soon you’re reaching for each other again.

You take your time getting back to the motel room, so after showers and packing are done, the three of you are still finishing off the food, and it’s getting quite late in the morning.  

Dean’s repacked his bag four times, and you’ve been stalling. It’s just that when you go, you’ll be stuck in the car with Dean, up against a white-noise that’s becoming more articulate as the hours go by.  You’re betting that by the time you get back to the bunker you’ll be hearing whispers.

What you don’t realise is that Dean’s already getting that from you, and it’s killing him.  Little secret _No-no, don’t look, Offer Sam first, Maybe, maybe clean my gun here, before we go._  The sound feels like your breath tickling the back of his mind, and every one of your evasions is a wet blanket thrown over his heart.  Your back is all you’ll show him, and he keeps remembering it against his chest with the clarity of your dapple-bright delight in his mind, his wet hands over the pulse in your forearms.

With the two of you curled in on your own thoughts and eavesdropping on one another, Sam’s found it trying too. Now he sits beside you both, looking between you and Dean as you face each other with your legs tucked under the chairs and your gazes tucked under the table.  It’s been a long morning for all of you.

“So what do you guys want to do?” he asks.

Dean starts at the external noise, and you jolt alert too.  You stare at Sam, worrying you’ve zoned out for a chunk of conversation.  Dean has the same dumb expression.

“What do you guys want to do with the rest of this curse?” Sam clarifies.  “Lay low at the bunker? Split up till it’s done? What?”

 _Just avoid each other I guess._  That’s what your mind says when you look at Dean to see what he thinks, and you don’t miss the hiccup in his vibrations.

Still, he says only, “Just hang out.  I guess.”  He nods at Sam like that’s easiest, shrugs for whatever.

“Okay, I’ll see how Jerry went with the shapeshifter job,” Sam says, agreeing with you, “see if they’re up for more outsourcing from us.”

At the prospect of a plan, Dean perks up remarkably.  “Okay, so… let’s get out of Ogallala!” He claps his hands and smiles at you encouragingly, looking forward to some solid time to have you within radio range.  For 3 or 4 seconds you look straight into his eyes, as though you can lean your mind closer, searching for something clear.  Anything, anything at all would be good.

He stares back curiously, waiting for you, but the hum only wavers, so with a deep breath you drag yourself out of the chair before he can misread it as anything but compulsion.

Getting the car packed is dreadfully quick.  You slink in behind Sam and resign yourself to a few hours of brick-walling your thoughts before the doors are even closed.

_Slam! Slam! Slam! Buzz!_

Everyone looks at Sam’s phone as he frowns at the screen.  Cautiously, he answers “Sam speaking… Claire!”  He puts his hand over the phone, mouthing _Coven Claire_ , and looks at Dean while he listens.  “Yeah, no that sounds like something… uh.  We’re about 3 hours away, but I think we need to get supplies first so, more like 7.  No one’s been hurt?”  He frowns down at his lap and Dean sighs, slumping back into his seat and you peer at him when that hum slides into a strange gravelly groan for a few seconds - _mmmm-hrrrrrrrr-mmmm_.  You feel the same way: No bumming in the bunker for you.

“Alright,” Sam nods.  “We’ll be there as soon as we can, tomorrow.  Just keep the place boarded up and locked.  I’ll let you know when we’re on our way… Okay… Bye.”

Sam turns in his seat to talk to you.  “The nightclub - our nightclub, that we recently de-witched - it seems to have some ghosts.”

“Fuck,” you groan, rubbing your forehead.  “Fuck it.”

“One sounds like a dog,” Sam adds.  All of you share grinding glares at each other, full of annoyance and guilt for not getting the job done right the first time.  “We need to head back for spell supplies and get there first thing.”

“Uh God.  Well, it’s 3-and-30 to the bunker, another 3 hours back to Denver; we can get it done today,” Dean says, dead already from the distance.

“We’ll figure out what we need on the way,” you say to Sam, “be in and out of the bunker in, like, 30, with food.”

The trip is blessedly filled with actual talking, thoughtful _consuming_ discussion about witch ghosts and familiar ghosts, planes of existence, if a witch ghost can control more than a regular ghost, what you might need, which texts you’ll bring.  You make lists of ingredients, then group ingredients by location, then rewrite it all afresh, putting names next to who’ll get what.  By the end, all it needs are some achievement stickers and a pretty border.

Not once does anyone mention your connection, or the spell.  Seems you’ll be doing this the old fashioned way.

Sam gets the weapons, Dean gets some food, you get the ingredients and texts, and your untouched duffel bags wait in the trunk as you all stand around a library table, eating on your feet and double-checking your stash.

“I’m gonna copy some stuff out,” you decide. “Don’t want to take precious things if we don’t have to.”  With sandwich in your cheeks, you scribble out the parts you think are relevant.  Dean stands beside you, brushes up against your hip and pushes the volumes a bit to see the titles, resting his finger on one.

“Yeah, I know,” you say seriously, “I’ll copy that next.”

“What?”

You stand up straight, swallow your food and look at Dean, realising he hadn’t said anything aloud.  You hadn’t even felt it happen.

“I can copy that for us,” he says quietly. He even takes the book to the other side of the table so you don’t have to hear him.

For the first hour of the trip you work on the spell, checking your copied notes and the texts you’ve brought, asking Sam to help confirm words that mean obliterate but not decimate, destroy and not deconstruct, and still, at the end of it, you’re not confident of what you’ll be doing.  Over her life, Trisna had clearly gathered immense power, enough to make a difference after something like death.  Can you just dissolve that?  You thought you’d sent it all back into the universe, but either you didn’t, or you should’ve said somewhere specific (Mars?). Or maybe she got it back.

One more read through from Sam and he sighs as he hands it back.  “Yeah, I think that’s as good as it’s going to get,” he says, without much enthusiasm.  “I think the taking is good, so it’s definitely not hers, but… it’s not…”

“It’s not definite,” you concede.  You’re of the same mind with Sam about the weaknesses, so to speak. “I mean, they never seem completely watertight, but I’m gonna end up with a grant proposal at this rate.”

“Maybe put in Or.  So say to destroy it, say that a lot, then _Or take_ ,” he suggests.  You mark the change and Sam looks at the words.  “Better than good.”

“Good enough,” you reply, as always.  You shuck the pages tidy and put them aside for a while to give your mind some rest.

Slumping against the door, you attempt to distract yourself with the view, but you’re stuck in the car, again, trapped so tight you’ve soon got your forehead against the glass like you can bend the pane out over the white line and fill your ears with the rush of wind.  Your dull gaze blurs the scenery as you listen to Dean’s mind in yours, something like consonants crackling through every now and then.  It’s like he’s on the other side of a field, and after a while you start thinking of songs to distract you, to overwhelm the frequency.

It gets away on you though.   _This is the song that never ends_ certainly runs its course soon enough.   _I’m Henry the Eighth I am_ settles in and after a while you start imagining other people singing it, bawdy sauced up soccer crowds or obnoxious 11-year old boys, belting out tuneless angry words - _I’m ‘Enery the EIGHTH I am, ‘En-er-ry the Eighth I am-I am, I got married to the WIDOW NEXT DOOR-_

“Y/N.”  Dean’s wincing, looking at you via the rear vision mirror like _Come on, do you have to?_

Regret flushes through you and you kick yourself in your brain’s arse.  It’s all so tiring.

In heavy resignation, you slide over the back seat to sit behind him and ready yourself once again for his timbre inside your head.   _Hey_ , you say.

_Hey.  How - doin?_

Ooooh it’s low, and close and feels so deep inside you it’s like you’ve swallowed your earbuds and chased them with warm, honeyed whiskey.  Dean’s glancing at you in the side-view mirror and you lick your lips, looking out the window without a real answer.  Shapeless thoughts roll around your mind, things about how there’s only a day or so left, his warm breath on your cool brow, just two more nights, the collar, the fear of addiction, the inevitable loss-

“Hey,” he says aloud.  “We’ll be okay.”

You look at the back of his head, thinking _Yeah, I know_ , and all of him seems to adjust, sit tall or lean back, something like his skin shifting everywhere.  You give up trying feel comfortable and try to just listen, not send.  _I’m just trying to keep things simple._

Then you see his hand slide down between the car frame and his seat, hanging back and angling for you, loose and hopeful.

You stare at it for a long moment before grabbing his fingers and giving them a steady squeeze.   _Thank you_ , you think, and let him go.

So you’re back to day one, minus the optimism, with him somewhere in you and vice versa.  His mood is like the rumble of the car, cradled somewhere low in your chest, and his thoughts take up a space amongst yours like a vacant seat filled.  You find that if you sit there as though you’re waiting for sleep, let your gaze catch and drag on whatever flies by, it’s like listening to him breathe.  You say nothing.  He waits for you.  It’s quiet.

Dean spends the rest of the trip with the peculiar feeling of being able to see what’s in front of him and, very slowly, like an image appearing on photopaper, also what’s in front of you.

…

While you sit in the backseat and catch some long-sought solitude, Sam’s off booking the rooms and Dean’s outside, in front of the car stretching his back and picking at the bricks like he’s got itchy muscles.

In the front seat, Sam’s phone rings and the caller ID says it’s Claire again.  “Sam’s phone, Y/N speaking.”

“Y/N!!  Oh my god! How are you sweetheart?”

“I’m good, Claire, how are you?”  It is kind of nice to hear her voice.

“Just about shitting my skin off that there’s probably a ghost on the property.  I’m so sorry-!”

“What, why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.” You frown, digging up a fresh page and a pen.

She’s rushed and sounds like she’s talking in an enclosed space, hand cupping the mic.  “I just- Ugh, it’s such a mess.  Look.  Someone’s reported the noises to the police, so they’ve told us they’re going to be patrolling the area tonight-”

“They can’t go in there,” you warn Claire.  “You understand that right?  Keep them out!”

“But _how_ , Y/N?!” Claire clearly does know that and is squeaking her words for the help.   _“What do I do?”_

“Tell them you just had it bombed for cockroaches,” you tell her.  “We can mock up a fake receipt if you need-”

“Yeah. Yes, okay.”

“-but keep them the fuck on the street.”

“Okay, I’ll try, but Y/N I think you guys should hold off till tomorrow,” she advises.  “There are four entrances to that building, you can’t guard them all, and with broken windows, fire escapes- like the place is pretty much derelict without the inspection, you know?  It’s meant for demolition next week!”

“Okay, okay we can put it off till the morning, I guess.  Just please, try to keep it secure. Do you want some police tape?”

By this stage Sam’s returned and Dean has noticed your concern, the way your patting the air as you talk.

“Okay-okay-okay,” she’s assuring you, back to a business-like tone. “Okay, sssssshit I thought talking to you would make me feel more confident but it’s just so much more real.  There’s signage everywhere, it’s just- they’re only noises right?  Y/N-”

“Claire, don’t worry about it.  You’re not responsible,” you say calmly, glancing at Dean as he opens the car door and questions you with his eyebrows.  “It’s contained, we’ll keep people out.”

“I’ll put some more signs up, about the ‘roaches,” she says. “I have a colour printer.”

“That’s great.” You glare at Dean about the situation and shake your head, calming down a bit.  “Just, Claire, it’ll be fine.  We’ll get to it in the morning.”

“In the morning?” Dean repeats, confused.

“Oh is that Dean?” Claire perks up a bit.  “How’s that going?  Where did you go? With the money?”

“Uh, that. Got. A little. Complicated,” you mutter, and shoo Dean back out of the car.  Outside, he repeats the news of the hold-up to Sam, both of them grumbling and curious about it.

Claire scolds, “No, not complicated. Sex, Y/N.  Sex him.  Very simple.”

“Yyyyynot really.  The um, the spell we did has gone a bit haywire.  We should sort that first before anything else.”   _Yes, say it out loud, those good sensible words.  
_

“Oh but he _loves_ you!” she whines, and the phrase just makes your shoulders tighten, fists clenching, lips bitten.  “ _Oh!_ You know What?! We have a cabin-”

“Claire, _please_ , I’m _sorry_.”  Something about your tone must convince her to let it go.  You rub your brow as you talk and pretend you can’t see Dean peering at you from the motel doorway.  “It’s.  This is-” _He loves me. He loves me. He loves me for two more days_.  “I’m _trying_ , okay?!”

“Okay, sweetie-”

“I’m just trying to look after us!”

“Yeah, I know.  You are,” she says, calming, apologetic.  “You are so good Y/N.  You’re doing so good.”

You take a breath in through your nose, look up at the ceiling for some sort of help, and blow it all out again.   _Just a few more days._

“Maybe give me a call when the job’s over?” she offers.

“Yeah,” you relax a little, lick your lips and look up at Dean still waiting there, ignoring what he might think right now.  “I’ll see how I go.”

“Okay.”

“Text us your email.  We’ll send that receipt in the next 20, say it happened so recently that you thought Steve knew.  And we’ll text you when things happen tomorrow.”

“Okay.”  Claire says sternly.  “Got it.  You guys take care, okay?”

“You too.”

…

One instant email address, one dodgy exterminator facebook page, one fake receipt for cockroach eradication, five servings of Chinese food and 3 bottles of beer.  That’s all it takes to get you ready for bed, all of you exhausted after a full day of inactivity.

“Same setup as last night?” you ask the guys.

“Oh, no I got you your own room,” Sam remembers and points at the table for you to find the key.  Dean sits up straight and looks at you, then at Sam.  Sam shrugs back because, well, you were going to avoid each other right?  Dean doesn’t seem to understand, just watches you collect your things.  He’s stunned, unable to think, with his hands slack in his lap.

“Awesome, thanks Sam.” You pick up the key - for the next room, says the tag - and nod at Sam before opening the door and backing out saying “Goodnight,” which may as well have been _Stay, good boy_.  Dean sits there and watches you go like he doesn’t realise what going actually means.

He tracks your silhouette going past the window, stares at the spot where the noise of your key travels through the wall, and looks back and forth across the cupboards as he waits for more sounds, signs of where you are.

He doesn’t like this.

Mouth now shut, still rigid, he blinks as he listens, unresponsive when Sam says “She’ll be okay. She’s right next door.”

There’s the faint sound of your toilet flushing, and then nothing.

Still nothing.

Dean turns and snatches the pillow off his bed, bundles the top blanket around it, ignores Sam’s “Dean!” and storms out the door.

“Y/N? Y/N? Hey, Y/N?” he pesters you from the doormat.

“Yeah what?” you grizzle on the way to the door.  “What is it?”

Dean pushes past you, slipping inside before you can say _On your matt_.  “Why do you have your own room?!”

“I- Dean.”  You close the door and watch him messily unwrap the pillow and toss it beside the bed, unfurling the blanket with upset arms and a mind that’s a crowd of anger, anxiety, and hurt.  

He comes back to talk to you and stops short of arm’s reach, glancing at the distance with sad hesitation. “Don’t ask me to go back,” he says sternly, pointing at their room.  “I can take the silence, I can take you ignoring me, I can take you rejecting- _whatever_ ,” he says, stopping himself before your expression can look any more shocked.  “But don’t ask me to not be here to just- I have- I need to see that you’re okay, alright?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” You realise now how it’s looked.

“I can’t- I can’t sleep in a strange place with you in another room!” he exclaims.

“No, of course you can’t.  I’m sorry.”

He stops and breathes, swallows and nods, and you notice his fingers claw at his thighs.  

The noise that’s risen since Claire’s call - a discordant clamour, like someone sitting on an organ, that you thought was your own - it starts to lessen and you realise it was him too, panicked and upset, and it’s something you’ve put him through.  Guilt and shame lap through you again and he shakes his head at the idea, beckoning you to cross the distance with minute nods and twitching fingers.

When lightning strikes, it travels down from the sky, but the connection happens in the air, when electricity forks up from the earth.  That’s what it’s like; you have to get close enough for him to really reach you and this distance has had him crackling in the air, energy flying loose and wayward.

Hand first, you step into his space, letting him squeeze your fingers and pull them down by his body.  The connection is powerful, scary, just like before, but right.  You thought if you got close enough there’d be some undertow you couldn’t resist, like a horizon of lust or something, but it’s so much more whole than that.  It’s peaceful and true, like a balance has been restored, a circuit completed and energy centered.

Dean drops his head to yours, and you put your hands on his back, closing your eyes to feel something slot into place with a satisfying quiet.  You press yourself against him, let him rub your back up and down so firmly it controls your breathing.  

Slowly you start to listen again, finding only one note, his note, sustained and steady, on the beat of his heart.  He hums like he’s agreeing with you.

“We don’t know what we’re going into tomorrow,” he says.  “Not really.  I’ve been so fucking nervous about you being there, but…  We gotta, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” you look up at him and realise what’s happened.  “Holy shit, I did it all over again!  I was about to take us in there as two separate things.  Dean!  Fuck!  Fucking hell-”

“Sh-sh-sh-hey, you’re not, see?” _Nononono me too, okay?_

“That gap between us,” you think aloud, “that’s exactly the sort of thing a spirit could get into, push us apart, separate and conquer-”

“But now they won’t,” he reminds you.   _It’s okay.  Fixed._

You’re so shitty at yourself, you don’t even feel your thoughts happen - _Fucking think I care about you so much and forget to see- Don’t even try to imagine what it’s been like for you- What it would be like- So fucking wrapped up in my own feelings_ -

“Y/N, hey-”

 _If I loved you as much as I thought I did I’d have protected you better than that_ “If you can cat tomorrow,” you say, skipping straight from thought to speech with no mind for Dean’s stuttering heart over your internal rant.  “If we get there and you think you can cat, don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Even if you think it’ll help, just don’t.  It’s too unknown.”  You’re still scowling, angry at yourself.

With your Responsible Hat on you pull your arms from around him and take a step back, and tell him very firmly, “No sex.”

You may as well have slapped him with a fish. “Wha- I- I wasn’t-  Okay.”  Nod, nod, frown.  “Okay?”

In panic you realise he might hear your thoughts - visions even? - about that and you start to bluster words aloud to cover it.  It doesn’t go very well.  “Look, you probably think you love me,” you explain, so very maturely. “If I’m the one generating all this, then that might be something you think, because having you like this is nice, and endearing, and it’ll probably feel authentic, but, you know, we’re people of action, and I think history will show, I mean, considering recent events-”

“Maybe let’s just go to sleep,” Dean says flatly.

“Yes.  Good idea.  Yes.”

Dean goes to use the bathroom and you get into bed.  As he goes through the motions he unloops your words. You think you’re making him love you, so you must want him to love you, and he knows you think it’s fake but hearing you say it… That’s what you want, his love, right now.  So, what, in about 36 hours you won’t…?

He puts his hand on the door handle and thinks to tamp down an emotion before you’re in his radar again: You’re trying to do the right thing, so he’s going to try and not be offended by you suggesting his feelings aren’t real.  Again.

On the ground, under the blanket, he wonders about where all your other thoughts have gone.  There’s the feel of you - tired, ashamed, concerned - but no incidental words, no internal train of thought.

 _Goodnight_ , he hears.

 _Good night,_ he replies.   _We’ll be okay.  We’re prepared_.

Your worry eases off a little, replaced by a warm leaning, and he stares at the ceiling while your consciousness slips under sleep, a soft caressing shift in his mind that makes him feel calmer, protective, and drowsy.

In his dream he feels your arms around him, sees your head below his chin.  He sees you in a chair, reading at a library table, and feels like his arm stretches across the room to hold your hand.  He feels contact, watching GIFs of you doing things you always do.  He feels your ear slide over his cheek, your lips kissing above the leather collar, and behind it, and then the strap is gone, and your palm drags itself away down his bare neck. He sees his own hands, holding nothing, and knows it’s after this. They’re cold, and ache to his elbows.  He imagines now, carving a line up his wrist and one up yours too, hands grasping forearms so that the blood weaves across the break and into each other’s veins so he can feel your life in him, hold it safe. He feels his blood wrapping itself around your heart with ready reserves, sees your chest swell from the gift.  The tone of your voice would ribbon through his mind like a ticker-tape all day.  He looks at the life, rich and vital, dripping onto your bare feet, and feels his eyes go salty and tight, knowing there are tears on your cheeks.  You smile with forgiveness and the cutting replays, your fingers twitching at the breach of your skin, he looks at how he’s hurt you for-

“HU-uh!” Dean curls into the semi-dark and grasps at your hand resting on his chest.  Fingering his wrist, he checks yours is dry, too, and lays back, waiting for the rabbit-speed guilt to drain away.

“‘S okay,” you whisper and he sits up, looking at you in the dawn haze.  You’re still asleep, with tears pooling by the bridge of your nose, lying at the edge of the bed and nearly tipping onto him.  

Dean puts his forehead to yours and listens to you dumbly chant _I’m okay it’s okay I forgive you I’m okay_ until it fades away and you’re quiet again.

He can’t wait for this fight to be over.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whether you meet it in battle, or take it to the fight; with great power, comes great responsibility.

You text Claire before you leave, giving her a good 30 minutes to clear anyone away, should they be around.  The reply you receive though - “We’re on it” - makes you stare at your phone. Who’s we?  What’s ‘on it’ mean?  It doesn’t matter; you’re on your way and, in the back seat, you’re already too busy checking your things, memorising the spell some more… so many cautionary angles.

“Don’t worry.” Dean sees you via the mirror, and notes the repetition inside.  “We’re gonna kill every ghost in a 2-mile radius.”

You park in the tucked-away alleys, where no one walks mid-morning, and all stand behind the trunk as Dean lets you draw the protective symbols on his chest.  With a nervous smile, you say, “I feel like I should be doing this in my blood… Seal it with a hand print.”

“Do it,” Dean says.  “Use blood.”

Sam glares at him with the same face as you. _You really want me to put my blood on you?_

_If you think we should._

You stare at the marking for a few moments, something Sam made a while ago to protect against ghost possessions specifically.  “….No.  I think-  I’m not sure, but no.”

“Okay.” Dean can feel your gut hesitate on a wordless idea and lets it go in an instant.  Sam takes a bucket of new and improved spell broth over to the hidden side of the car and checks the kit bag’s contents and equipment for himself.

“I wish I could though.” You look up at Dean and speak quietly.  “Use myself, something of myself, to protect you somehow.”

Dean thinks of his dream this morning and suddenly wonders what you really saw of it, if you even knew it was his, and if you can feel how he wants to confess that maybe, maybe this time he made you feel something. He wonders if you can feel his pride at that, and then his guilt.

And then as soon as it’s there, it’s replaced; the sympathy of being made to, being at the mercy of each other, and the solidarity of sacrifice, that sweeps it away and he’s ready, ready to fight for you.  He’s ready to help you win.

Dean pulls down his t-shirt, buttons up the plaid, saying “You won’t have to.”  

 _But I would.  Will._ You don’t even need to think the words really; it’s between you when you look at him.  

And the feeling is there, in the shadow of his iris, the same.   _So will I,_ he thinks, steeling you both with the words.

It’s fierce, this bond.  It’s every pre-battle nod, every bloody-clutched shirt, every silence over the glass just emptied while you think of how you almost couldn’t be here, and then some…  Something.  There’s something more about it, like you’re threaded into each other across space, and the tension of the moment twists it all rope-tight.

“Why do you think we’re not hearing everything?” Dean asks, his tone low and cut in these minutes before the last regroup.

“Control,” you say plainly.  “I think, before, we were kind of… playing in it.  Exploring.  We’re in and out now, and I think my thoughts to you like… like I can control the distance they have.  I’m gonna trying opening it up once we get in there, like I was in the car,” and you smile as you say, “try and think aloud.”

“So I can keep some secrets still,” he smirks, tilting his chin like a challenge.

He stops talking then, shuts up all over but for an eyebrow.  You feel it, and try him.  

Slowly, with blinks and a faltering grin, Dean resists your push on his mind. It’s like a pressure behind his eyes.  It even makes him nod backwards a bit as you stare at his chest and lean your way around the thought.  There’s no weakness to it, and it’s slippery, until you flex your greatest muscle: _Let me_.

He breaks breath in his throat and you breathe in, as if a wall has fallen from the push, and you look up at him curiously, saying, “There’s no secret there.”

“Mm, y- No. I,”  Dean stutters with the excuse.

“Me witch, you familiar,” you remind him kindly.

“Yeah,” he nods, wiping his palms down his shirt.  “I know, just-”  It’s power, and a bit scary, and being able to answer the command soothes him like it did but it still takes him a few seconds to figure out his discomfort is from trying to defy you in the first place.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, “I’m not-”

“Oh no,” Sam breathes.  “Company.”

You and Dean snap around, looking down the street.  The entrance to the nightclub’s alley is some distance away but near enough that you easily recognize the group of women about to disappear between the buildings.  “Guys! There they are!” exclaims Claire, and they all turn to see you.

Claire, Sarah, Julia, Leanne and Linda fill their chests and walk your way, all of them clearly aware that you’re going to disapprove; they’re beginning their bravery now.  Only Sarah looks truly sorry, her gaze fixed on Sam as they approach, while Linda pats the air saying “Now, Y/N, we know you’re going to say we can’t help, okay?”

Dean slams the trunk closed and you lean your elbows on the shiny metal, putting your face in your hands while you take stock of even more inventory.  

“Ladies,” Dean starts, “This isn’t-  you can’t just turn up like this.”

“We know!” Leanne insists from the back of the group, her sheepish smile greeting you when you turn and face them.  “But we _want_ to help!”

“Leanne, is that a hazmat suit?” you ask.

“Yeah!” she answers, a little proud, and Julia tilts out of the group, showing you hers by pinching the fabric like it’s a waistcoat.  “I’m a chemist.  It’s disposable.”

They all nod like _See?  We’ve prepared_. They don’t know what else to do.

“Oh guys, please!” you plead, looking at Claire because you thought she’d know better by now.  “ _Please_ don’t give me more things to worry about!”

“No, you won’t have to worry!” Linda insists.  “We’ll stay out of sight, we’ll be quiet, we’ll just be there if-”

“It’s a _ghost!”_ you burst.  “There is no _sight_! There’s no _quiet_!  There’s your _presence_ , Linda! Your souls in the same space, completely unprotected!”

 _I can’t._ You close your eyes and walk around to the other side of the car.  

 _See this is what it’s like,_ Dean thinks. _I worry abou-_

_Oh, **shut up.**_

Sam talks to them, explaining the unknown territory of a witch’s ghost, while Dean comes around to you.  “Don’t stress out.  They can stay here.”

“But I _have_ to now!” you growl because _They could be an asset and it’s stupid to not consider it, even if they’re citizens, even if it’s dangerous, we can do sigils on them too, I just-  Just.  Let me.  Think._

Dean puts his hands on your shoulders, and waits for your mind to organise itself…  

“God they’re even wearing plaid,” you groan.  “Sam, could you get the marker please?”

All rules lead to this, this one rule you’re breaking now: Keep people out of danger.  

You feel Dean’s grim wariness ooze through his touch.  “You really think they made that much difference last time?” he asks quietly.

You look at him and swallow down the gravity of it.   _We’d have been dead without them._

_They might end up dead because of us._

_Shut up shut up shut up._

You just know, you _know_ , you need what they’ve got.  You need everything you can get.  Dean feels your desperation enough to let you go and wait for an order, biting down on his question about why you think you haven’t got enough already.

For a sharp moment, the memory of Trisna’s looming strength grips your chest, and that acrid fear shimmers through your veins.  You remember the intimidation, your surprise, how tentatively you hoped you’d win, and how you actually didn’t.  And now, just yards away, you can already feel her; a resonant energy within the building, dark and hungry.

You push aside the reality of risk and recalibrate your plans to include a small coven.

Sam draws the sigils on each chest, Sarah’s last with her apologetic eyes reluctantly acknowledged.  You explain what you know while he does:  “Okay, first thing; you guys go in holding hands, in a circle.  Don’t break it.  It’ll protect y’all from I don’t know what but it’s something.”  Julia and Leanne are already clasping each other’s and they squeeze fingers, grasping Linda’s and Claire’s beside them, being good students.  “I think the best thing you can do is give me strength.  With my name, I think, like last time.”  You look at Dean, “I don’t think there’s any Latin I’m comfortable using with them.”

 _Sensible_ , he nods.  He’s not about to prompt you on this.

Sam collects the brush and the bucket of anti-witch broth, and you hold yet another little plastic pouch of the stuff, patting your pocket for the lighter as Sam and Dean nod that they’ve checked theirs too.  “You got the bag?” you ask Dean.

He picks up the duffel.  “All packed.”

“Right then.  Wait!” You turn back to the women, looking at the ground and speaking slowly as the thoughts come to you.  “These sigils are to protect us from possession.  If it fails, if she gets into me… break the circle.  We’ll make a salt line, and you should get inside that, but if I’m in the middle you have to either get me out of there or break the circle and reform without me.  Don’t let her have you through me.”

No one moves, and Claire looks like she’s about to cry.  “Right,” Linda blurts, and they all follow you and Dean and Sam down the road, up the alley and under the warning signs taped across the door.

Dean shoulders ahead of you, flicking on the mains and lights.  You look at Sarah and she steps up to complete the circle of women, all of them shuffling in while Sam holds the door open.  It’s cold inside, dusty, hollow and drafty, and at the threshold of the main room, where Annemarie led you just days ago, Dean stops to talk.

“Okay, so, when we get in there, it’s going to be all systems go.  Sam’s going to be looking for evidence of the witch and her familiar; Y/N’s going to be setting up a spell and I’ll be laying a salt ring down the back.  That’s your sanctuary, alright?”  He doesn’t need to work to convey the importance of these words.  You can feel them shaking, preparing themselves to keep on going through whatever terror might come.  You can feel that terror too, behind the door, waiting for an opportunity.

“It’s gonna get hairy, probably like before.  Just stay linked, and get out from around Y/N if she’s caught.”  He swallows and looks at you, adding, “Don’t get caught.”

_You too._

As soon as Dean cracks the door, it’s on.  


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’ll take what she can and hold nothing back. So use it all, spend it all, and fight with everything you’ve got.

Dean runs across the room dropping the bag in the centre and pushing the stools aside.  You follow him, pulling out the bowl, broth, ingredients and dagger from the bag.  Sam pulls out the black-light and starts scanning the walls for remnant evidence of Trisna’s physical self, quickly finding a stunning blast patch on the matte-black paint.

“Holy crap,” he breathes and the women pause, halfway across the space, not quite around you yet, gaping at the silhouette of Trisna and her familiar, life sized and iridescent under the reflection.  You knew it would be there, could feel it when you crossed the threshold, and now it’s as though she’ll poison your body through the air of the room.  Smells of wet hair and dog breath distract you, and Dean’s whole chemistry flares protectively against the presence of them. It’s so clear to you both, all of it acrid with threat.

With flashlight in hand, Sam begins dipping the brush in the bucket and painting the broth over the shapes he finds, starting with the witch.  It’s a bit oily, needing thorough, firm strokes back and forth, and he works as efficiently as he can.

_RRRRR **APH!**_

Claire screams and her friends yelp, heaving sighs of fear over the snarl swirling around you all. Dean drops the salt and steps towards you - “No! Complete the circle!” you yell and he shakes his head at himself.   _Ah! Fuck it!_

_It’s okay, I got it._

He’s done soon enough and the women now stand around you, a ring of white knuckles that are so close you could reach them with outstretched arms.  They’re unsure of when to do what, shuffling tightly from a fear that pushes from all sides.  They stare at you for any cue.

Dean can’t help Sam work, so stands with the crowbar high, watching for the attacking spirit.  You can feel his fear for you, hackles high and… the cat form of him coiled and hissing is somewhere there, like a hologram around his ankles, ready to strike.  You can see static in the faint fur, golden and snapping, and a purity of magic that’s so tempting you have to shake away the vision and try to focus on your trembling hands preparing the extra ingredients for the spell.   _Slow is smooth, smooth is fast._

The growl takes direction, circles the group and over you all.  The sound is fast but the fog of it is slow - black and white and humid - a bewildering threat that strains the seconds you need. Then you’re ready, and looking at Dean when you stand up and call, “Just say when Sam.”

“Thirty seconds!”

_“Cunning Woman.”_

Everyone hears it.  Trisna’s seething hush fills the space, sourceless, echoless.  Curses are whispered and you reach across the circle to clasp pairs of hands, helping them stay with you.  Dean paces outside the group and looks around for signs of anything.

 _You changed me,_ she says.  The toneless words feel confident and beautiful, but you’re not sure who can hear them.   _I felt your power and you changed me.  I like it._

Dean looks at you then, furious and urgent, confused and protective.

The circling spectre takes a stronger form, rolls over the ground, whirling around ankles and calves and you almost see the whole dog lunge into your space between pairs of knees - _RRR **APH-APH!**_

Arms snap taught against the turbulence.  “Jesus!” someone gasps. “Jesus Christ!”

You look at Dean, hearing his _I can’t be everywhere fuck it Sam c’mon Sam!_

Sam shouts “Ah! Fuck!” and Dean dashes over to him, realising something has knocked the bucket from Sam’s hand.  Sam scrambles to pick it up and keep the contents, and you see the shadow of the dog fly by him, then swipe at his legs and slash his jeans.

Dean gets his back to his brother, crowbar whipping through the air, yelling “You okay?”

“Dammit! It’s half gone!”

“Oh God, Y/N?” Leanne whimpers, as though the hope is leaking out of her. “Y/N?  What are we gonna do?”  You glare at her, all of you about to thump out of your own skin.  “What do we do?”

“I’m starting Sam!” You kneel down and begin the words and Linda nods to her friends to start saying your name.  Instantly a firmness of energy draws up from the ground toward you, five ribbons of something sunshine good, singing with their love for each other, blindly dedicated to you.  It’s something so pure you can focus on speaking while pouring the powders and offerings that go with each word.  You say it all once through but nothing changes; it’s missing something.  Sam’s broth, your blood, something.

“It’s working guys, keep going,” you tell them and stand tall to show Dean you’re okay, show them you’re getting stronger.

 _I like your strength, Y/N,_ Trisna whispers, her diction ever elegant and brittle. _I felt it.  I want it._

You pull out the pouch of broth and the knife.  It worked last time - it did _something_ \- but this time you’ve ramped it up with your words and different ingredients.  You’re half expecting to spend your own spell again, completely this time, and possibly damage yourself in the process.

With your eyes on Sam’s brush, the last of the dog print barely six strokes away from covered, you hold the dagger over the pouch in your hand and wait for the moment it should work.  Dean stares at the blade, distracted by streaks of white and teeth bolting across the room, threatening you all.  Then you see him look up.

A soft whiteness appears across the roof.  Like milk threading through water, it swirls and smokes and for a terrifying second you think the form of a woman is going to fall onto you, but like a waterfall of mist it drops in a column, through you, with words you can’t follow and a searing pain flares itself across your chest.  She’s burned away the sigil.

“Y/N!” Dean’s shout reaches you over the screams, over your wail as you feel pain replace the black, and a cold vulnerability peels over you.  You crumple to the ground, barely catching yourself on your hands.  

Everything changes.

Sam’s yelling, “Go! Go-go-go!” Shadows and scuffling patter around you as the women are herded back into the salt, Sam with them; Dean’s on his knees before you, the bowl under your belly as you keep yourself on all fours.

“Y/N!” Dean grabs your shoulders and helps you sit.  “Where is she?”

When you look at him, it’s as if through a veil.  “Where is she?” you slur.  

But he means you.  He means Where is Y/N, because he could feel Trisna come between you as it happened. His thoughts are muffled from you.

“You get the fuck out of her you bitch!” he snarls, shaking you.

Trisna’s laughter trickles through you, feathers sour down your neck and gropes clammy on your innards.  There’s a pull inside, like she’s breathing in the smell of your heart, and suddenly the strength you have in your place, in this family, with Dean, sits jewel-like under her hands.   _Oh I’ll have you_ , she sighs.

“Dean!” Your hand rattles the dagger on the ground, raising it loosely.  “Help me!” He takes your hands in his, helping you hold the pouch of broth and the dagger.

Starting the spell again, you fight to push sounds from your throat and out your mouth as you build each word.  You start tilting up, like you’re lifting your face above the surface, just so you can breathe pure air.  Using your hands, Dean cuts to free the broth and your blood, and vaguely you feel the thin flow of support, from behind the salt, as they start up chanting your name again.

Dean’s fear and fury make him shake too, and you pause your words, realising that he’s holding something back.  You reach out to hear whatever it is he’s got, as though your mind is leaning away from Trisna’s clawing grip.

A flash of teeth swipes past you, saliva spattering your cheeks.  Dean turns at it, grabs for the crowbar and is thrown back, his hollering pain mashed into your ears with the bark and snarl.  He grabs at his chest where the claw marks bloom red and looks at you, apologising.

“Do what you think you should do,” you say, pushing the words out so fast and hard you think you’ll throw up.

Trisna starts settling in, looking around inside and measuring your bones. The dog seems almost solid now and you wonder if it’s Trisna’s eyes in you, but Sam appears, kicking at it, lunging for the crowbar and Dean crawls back to you, holding you up over the bowl again, unable to leave you while he can hear you so threatened inside.

You feel Trisna push herself down through your spine and consider your skin for size, humming at your condition.  It’s smug.  She smells old and menacing.  You fight for presence.

“Dean,” you say, and find that, now that you can tell where she is, you can actually direct your strength.  It’s a pressure from behind, pushing into your front, up against your ribs and collar bones, heavy on your hips and fattening your throat.

The chanting continues, hopeful but thin with fear.  Sam urges you, “Again Y/N! You can do it!” and is knocked onto his back, holding off the dog by the skin of it’s neck.  Suddenly your ears have depth again.  Everything feels windswept and still, like the eye of the storm, and you call, “Come back!” to everyone behind you.

Sarah joins the hands she holds and leaves the circle, runs ahead, taking the crowbar with both hands and swiping at the dog to free Sam.  He takes the iron from her, pushes her back to the waiting circle, and gets himself up to stand sentinel as the wind picks up once more.

The five of them start afresh, loud and shaken, and say your name like it’s the only word they know.  Sam crouches outside the circle, crowbar in hand and urges you on.

You nod at Dean, “Again,” firmer, with hope.  This time he cuts his hand too and lets the trickle fall into the bowl.  You start the spell, heaving breath into your lungs for each clause, closing your eyes and pulling up that wholesome offering from the women around you, embracing the golden gift Dean has, like it can activate something in you.

 _Oh it’s sweet,_ Trisna thinks, feeling the blend of you and Dean over the broth and you hear Dean jolt, snapping at the sound of her voice coming from your mind, through the contact of your palms.  He snarls inside, hissing with possessiveness and vengeance for territory crossed, and as you speak, as the coven’s chant of your name helps you ground yourself to the earth, you feel Dean slip out of your hand.

There’s an apology from him and then more pain, making you cry out and gasp. Cupping your hand over your heart, you look down and see scratch marks, deep and beading red through the melted sigil.  Dean, his small and fierce body leaping at you, hooks his claws into the meat of your neck and shoulders to put your bloodied chests together.

Desperately, you keep talking, clutches of words at a time, and hug him to yourself as though he can salvage your soul if you lose the fight.  Then his blood starts to find you, and it crackles with force and devotion. The words you hesitated to choose back then, they start to fall from your lips like the Lord’s prayer, easy and true and strong, and you tell Trisna, tell the universe, that you shall take her power, separate it from her, and destroy her soul yourself.

Your name beats into you now, from all sides, with a flavour of defiance and tenacity that feeds you both.  You can feel them lean into the circle, calling over your voice and throwing their solidarity at Trisna like a whip.  The dog can’t get past the storm of support and he loyally circles, howling while weakened by the broth that soaks into his ashes and the iron Sam slashes into his ghostly form.

Lightning cracks among your cells and the drag between your three energies churns in boiling currents, little snaps of electricity stabbing out through your skin.  Dean scratches your belly with his feet as whatever magic his form holds is drawn into you, the sound of it a tooth-aching shout that starts a sweating fever across your skin.  He gives it, pushes his wrath, sends it to meet Trisna’s edge to help burn her away like a fire horizon.  The battle hurts with a strength that holds you up, and you can feel Dean help gather your magic and coil for an attack.  Inside you, Trisna prepares a dark, heavy response.  Yet, with a last deep breath before you go under, you lift up everything you have, feel the power of your name wrap around your magic, your soul, your spirit and strength, and Dean roars again, holding fast with you to smash it down on her, and the brilliance bursts through you. Trisna’s rage screeches metallic in your ears, and you clutch Dean against your bones as the earthquake-rumble of your power rattles your brain unconscious and obliterates Trisna forever.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change what’s in your life and you’ll change who you are.

It’s dark.  And quiet.  And heavy.

But not silent.  Dean’s voice is pushing through to your mind, and it’s real.  “Hey, hey, Y/N?  Come on sweetheart, let’s go… _come_ on, _wake_ up Y/N…”

You creak your eyes open and see him leaning over you, and slowly you feel how you’re laying on the inside of his bent leg.  “Hey, there she is,” he says, breath stuttering.   _Can you hear me?_  “You okay?  Gimme a sign, yeah?”

“Dean.”  Your voice surprises you.  It’s hoarse, but strong. The echo of your name peppers the background, your small coven still offering help.

“Yeah. Y/N, tell me you’re okay.”   _Come on, tell me it’s just you._

_It’s just me._

A blade clatters to the ground and Dean grabs your shoulders, pulls you up and crushes you into his chest, wrapping his hold around you with a hand on the back of your head. _Fuck, Y/N.  Fucking hell._

Your rag-doll limbs slowly waken and you take fist-fulls of shirt and arm and listen to the air rush in and out of him.  You feel the bulk of Dean in your embrace, so thankful that he’s himself, and let him hear your _I’m okay, I feel okay. Thank you, you were amazing._  “How did you know?”

Dean lets you go enough to look at you, and asks, “To use my blood?”

Your hand has found the back of his neck, fingers stroking the short hair, and you nod.

“I dunno.  You said the magic was stronger when I was in familial form.  It felt so true, and that need to protect, to give myself…  She was _inside_ you, Y/N.”  He’s still angry about it, looking through you at the image in his mind, his fingers clawing at the memory.  “I had to get in there… I’m sorry, I disobeyed-”

“You knew better.” You shake your head.  “You knew better because you listened and… I’m sorry I- I don’t really know what I’ve been hearing.”

Dean brushes your hair down, heavy warm strokes down the back of your head, and puts your temples together.   _Don’t worry about it.  You’re forgiven.  You were doing your best.  
_

Both of you are looking down at all the red.  Except for your injured skin, throbbing and tight, you feel fine inside.  Whole, well-fed, dew fresh. It’s like you’ve slept for 8 hours.  Like you’ve woken from an organ transplant operation.

Either they’ve started breathing again, or you’re listening better, but everyone else is some yards away, having scooted back before they knew you’d won.  Claire’s crying now, letting the sobs shake her, and Linda quietly cries too as they clutch each other.  Sarah, Julia and Leanne let the tears fall, shrugging dimpled cheeks and sniffing as they watch.

Sarah crawls over and indicates she’d like to check Dean’s cuts.  She pulls a backpack off her shoulders, something you hadn’t even registered yet, and fishes out some gauze and cream.  Before he’s moved away from you, she knows to tell him, “You might need stitches on some of these.”

“Do her first then.”  Dean helps you sit up properly and pushes himself away a foot or so, holding your uninjured hand.  Sarah hesitates, but sniffs and nods, unable to make eye contact, and starts cleaning, applying cream to your burn marks and plasters to the scratches.  “Thank you,” she says, crisp and wet.  “You- It was terrifying.”

It’s quiet enough that everyone can hear her talk.

“That god damned dog, kept howling,” she says, her voice twisting around control.  “There was all this light, and she was, she was in you.”  Sarah hovers her hands over her own shoulders, as though she’s carrying a load, showing you how it looked.  “All grey, and then you were golden, here.”  Her hands go up, around an invisible column that’s feet high above her chest. “And Dean, he was _screaming_ and-” Another gesture, something on top of it all, as she tries to take an even breath. “Oh god, just so terrifying.  I thought your skin was, was going to break apa-hart!” She swallows her gulps and shakes her head, putting her hands back to the task.

You chew your lips and watch her fingers work, glancing at Dean.

“I know you offered yourselves,” you admit, “but you couldn’t have known how dangerous this would be.  I’m sorry I used you.”

“No, Y/N,” Claire begins, leaning toward you as she hiccups on her words across the space, “you didn’t-”

“Claire, I can’t make this clear enough,” you say firmly.  “I risked your lives today.  I think it was worth it.  I _think_.  But I don’t know.”

“I could feel, Y/N, how much she would’ve been happy to kill someone.”  Claire struggles to speak, but the murmurs of her friends help her conviction.  “It could’ve been my Andrew.  It could’ve been construction workers, or young families who’ll move in. _I’m_ sure.  It was worth it.”

Sarah finishes what she’s doing and turns to Dean.  Sam climbs off the ground and he limps over to the equipment, pulling out the fuel, and Sarah’s eyes follow him around, full of worry.

“I can do this,” you tell her, and nod in Sam’s direction.

When he sees her coming he stops and says, “Sarah, thank you, for getting-” but she threads her arms around his waist and Sam decides a hug will probably do the job.  She squeezes him, and when he drags his hand down her hair, she heaves a shivering breath in and out.

Behind them, a quietly cooling layer of black soot coats the wall in exactly the shape of the witch and her dog, surrounded by a blast of grey ash.  It looks as though they’ve burst through it, cartoon style, and run off into an overcast sky. Thick flakes crumble away, drifting to the floor like burnt paper.

…

Everyone is back at the Impala while Sam finishes laying the last of the fuel.  Little conversations overlap across the group, cautious in the daylight.  “You sure you’re okay?” “You gonna get that looked at?” “Stuff it in here, I’ll use the furnace at work.”  “I think we should split up.”

Away from the pack, Claire levels at you, red-eyed but pragmatic again.  “How much of that cheque you got left?”

“Uh, two-thirds?” you figure.  “I promise we’ll-”

“Okay, this is the cabin’s address.”  She takes your phone from your hand, obviously having waited for a moment it’s unlocked to interrupt you.  She puts ‘Claire’s Cabin’ in the contacts.  “It’s free this weekend.  I’m expecting you and Dean there-”

“Claire-”

“There’s a rich whiskey in the cupboard, a good bookshelf and no wifi, my love.  The firewood will be stacked, the fridge will be stocked.  Don’t let it rot in the crisper.”  She takes your wrist and puts the phone back in your hand.  “And when I can think straight again I’ll call and tell you just how fucking amazing you are, how fuckingly amazing you all are.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll have that chat too,” she adds and looks at you earnestly, pulsing her grasp as though she’s repeating the words.  Then you hear Sam’s steps approaching and she kisses you on the cheek, turning away to link her arm with Sarah’s. “Come on girls.”

Quick hugs and quicker waves, and they stride away from the site, heads down, all in their own directions.

“Rest up till we get Cas on it,” Sam says to Dean and he gets in the driver’s seat.  Dean doesn’t argue, and lets you open the backdoor for him.  He passes the keys over the seat and leans back beside you. With his good hand pressed between yours, you wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do now.

…

At the motel, Cas visits Dean in their room and heals him.  You wait in yours, listening to the low hum of men’s voices talking about serious things next door.

Minutes later, Cas is knocking, nearly squinting at you when you let him in.  “Hello, Y/N.”

“Hey Cas,” you say and walk back to the fridge for a drink.  “You okay?”

“I am.  I killed some vampires last night.”

“Good for you,” you say with a smile.

“You seem well,” he says.  “You don’t seem like you need healing.”

“There’s the cut on my hand, and the burns and scratches…” You finger the marks on your chest.  They’re not as tender as you expected they’d be.  “I’ll be okay.”

“No one need’s a sigil on their chest forever,” he says kindly.

You manage to keep your feet still as he approaches and hold his eye contact as he heals your chest.  He seems indifferent, accepting of whatever it is you’ve done.

He collects your hand and heals that too.  “I could feel how much Dean cares for you,” he says, like it’s the Fun Fact of the Day.

“It’s a very powerful spell,” you agree and hold your healthy hands together.

“Hmm,” he replies.  You hope he understands that you don’t want to deceive to him, but you don’t really know what’s true, so you’ll say nothing, and keep it all un-lied.  “I hope you’re well, Y/N.  I’ll see you soon.”

“See you Cas,” you say, and take a deep breath.  “Thank you.”

You don’t really notice him disappear, just pull out your phone to text Sam that you’ll get some lunch for everyone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a long day to go, things have finally settled down some. Dean feels good. You feel pretty good too. You both just… feel good. Yeah.

_These are the worst fries you’ve ever bought._  “No offence.”   _We should try making fries more often though.  Or once even._  “Sam have you seen a slotted spoon, wire ladle thingy in the bunker kitchen?”

“Uuuuh-”

“Can’t be that hard,” he says to you and stuffs some food into his mouth.   _Imma try something different on the next burger too.  You like cinnamon yeah?  Maybe that and basil.  And a potato pattie._ Dean nods and eats, absorbed in his meal and his thoughts, with no mind for Sam’s creased brow or your amused smile. _I have way too much energy right now.  You guys okay here for a while?_  He brushes off his hands, saying to Sam “I’m gonna go cat for a bit, before we get driving.”

The motel door slams and Sam says “That nap did him good… it seems.”

“And Cas probably helped.  I’m sure he tops him up with a liver cleanse or something.”

Sam scoffs and wraps up his rubbish.

“I’m sorry if you’ve been feeling left out.  I mean, I’m sure you don’t want in on this,” you wave your finger between yourself and where Dean sat, “but, it’s kinda consuming.”

“Oh well, that,” Sam indicates to the same spot, meaning how immersed Dean’s become, “that’s a little unusual, but it’s fine.”  He sees you bite your lip and puts his hand on the table, halfway towards you.  “Really it’s fine.  I can generally guess his mood, but I can’t remember seeing him this happy.  And it’s a nice break, to be honest.”

“What, from _talking_ to us?!” you sputter.

“No! From the grief!” he laughs. “From worrying about how he is, how you are, all that tension.  You’re looking after each other up there,” he waggles his finger up near his brain, “and I can just let you guys be.”

It never occurred to you that Sam worried about you too.  Of course he would.

“You going to keep up with Sarah?”

He flicks the corner of a food wrapper back and forth with his thumbnail while he thinks.

“I could imagine,” you suggest, “that if Claire decided, and Julie and Leanne decided, that they were going to help… Sarah couldn’t not come, too.”  

Sam looks at you for your thoughts.  

“Well,” you shrug, “she’s brave.”

He heaves a sigh about the fact and you figure he’s thinking of when she attacked the familiar’s ghost as it pushed down on Sam’s hold.

“Tell you what.  Claire gave me some money last time, asked me to spend it on a plush night out with Dean.  It’s not really our thing,” you shrug, “if we, uh,” - quick retreat - “if we had a thing, or you know-”

“You have a thing,” Sam says flatly.

“No.  Well, there’s _this_ thing, but-”

“There is also a thing between you two,” Sam says, even flatter, instantly giving up.  “But anyway.”

“Anyway!” You sigh, too.  “She’s insisting her cabin be used this weekend.  Why don’t you and Sarah use what’s left of the money while we do that?”

Sam’s eyebrows ask the question first.  “I thought you were avoiding all of that.”

“I am! We are!  It’s just… the fridge is full, so.  You know.”

…

After the rest stop on the way home, you lay down on the back seat to see if it’s quiet enough to sleep, which Dean agrees is a good idea.  His train of thought isn’t as busy when he drives; he seems soothed by the focus of being purposefully occupied and enjoying the task.  The snippets come incidentally, slipping by you like an absent brush of the thumb, easy and affectionate.  You’re not sure how your incidental thoughts appear to him. Dean’s are like proper parts of sentences, yet it’s as though he replies to your moods when they’re only half-formed.

Barely minutes go by before his low, warm tones have coaxed you sleepy, and then there’s a comforting peace.  You breathe deep and close your eyes, happily persuaded into rest.  Sam sleeps against the doorframe.  Dean’s eyes crease at the broad afternoon sun and the satisfaction of feeling he’s doing just what he should, with everyone right where they should be.

After a while, Dean feels you slip into a deeper sleep.  The heaviness of your breath and the resting warmth of you is like your forehead tucked into his neck, as though it’s you who can purr, and he feels his heart rate drop in sympathy.

He notices, too, that, within that curious cloud of repose, you’re quiet.  As in, your talking mind is asleep too. So Dean hazards a guess that you’re probably not able to listen while unconscious, and he lets his mind wander into the hours ahead and what they might include.

Initially, he’s sensible and dutiful.  He doesn’t think aloud, just to himself, down to his lap or the steering wheel, thoughts about how it’ll be fine if nothing happens tonight, or tomorrow.  That you’re sure it’s artificial, the attraction between you.   _She doesn’t want to do anything, to protect us both.  If something is still there tomorrow, when the spell ends, so be it.  Maybe something will happen then.  And that’s good enough._ He nods along with the words.

He’s fairly certain, as his thoughts become less scripted, that pointing out the potential of this last night - namely a sexual experience with some sort of telepathy - wouldn’t sway you in the slightest.  Nothing will ever compare again! you’d say.  How would we go back to analogue!  And you’d be right.

But _telepathy_.

To say exactly what you want, when you want, and how you like it.  To learn even a fraction of that so that maybe, if you still want him afterwards, he can give you exactly what you’ve ever hoped for from a guy.

And for him to be able to show you how good it feels when someone hits all the right spots.  To be able to see!  Dean shifts in his seat as he realises he might feel too, not just you saying yes or no, but he’d _feel_ _why_ you would say it.  Why you would sigh when he drags his palms down your waist, how much you notice his lips on your belly, under your breast, whether it’s the push of his knuckles or the rub of his fingertips that’s making you arch like that.  And you could send those thoughts to him too…

 _That warm press all the way,_ he thinks, _rib bones and hip bones.  Soft lower belly on mine, right inside the hip, paler under my thumb, watch the parts of us kiss, and hands on each other’s skin, and I could get down there and feel her hug me with her legs, see how she tastes and get my shoulders between-_

Dean swallows, because that feeling is something he can really imagine.  Not just your soft inner thighs on his arms, but the spread of legs for breadth.  The image brings a slight stretch to his groin.

It was so sexy, how you sighed for him.  That slackening you gave when he first kissed you by the car, properly kissed you, with your finger hooked into the collar.  He imagines how his tongue might press down between your folds - which he’s imagined before but this time there’s a fragrance to it, like being close to you has given him a base note in the scent - and you’d _sigh_. Yeah, just like that.

Dean breathes deep, gazing along the white line of the road like your chin is at the end.  He’d drag that blunt muscle down over your clit and lap back up from the dint, get your flavour across his tongue, and mouth into that perfect warmth.   _Dean_ , you’d say, or think, and he’d hear a happy tone of anticipation, your legs impatient over his shoulders.

He loves hearing his name in your mind.  Hearing it in your voice has been a favourite thing.  He even went through a stage where he’d antagonise you, in the early days, just to hear you growl it.  But the way your mind says his name, when you want him to listen, he feels like closing his eyes and leaning on you.

Without realising, Dean starts to move his hips, a small oscillation around a fixed point at the root of his dick, and he keeps visualising licking you, long and fat, a reciprocal feeling dragging itself up the length of his chubbing cock.  Quickly he adjusts his jeans so that it can stretch out, and that sympathetic tickle slides sweetly up the shaft.  He’d lick, yeah, and suck, little pulsing kisses on your clit, tender like the nerves on the end of him.  Back and forth he’d try, a little flick to see what you think and he shivers happily at the tight exhilaration sweeping over his scalp because he’s sure you’d love that, _love_ it, snatch his hair and gasp.

Somehow his driving doesn’t falter and the car loyally follows the tarmac as Dean’s visual cortex is occupied with the favour being returned.  He imagines himself curling back, his pelvis tilted down, knees curled to give you everything, how his belly would feel taut, thighs tickled by your hair, and how you’d hold his knees apart, firm and steady, so you could get your mouth over him without interruption, no backseat driving there.  He hears himself sigh _Oh!_ higher than ever because it feels like quicksilver down the centre of him, so much more sensitive than usual, the whole area prickling with pleasure.

Then he’d sigh, long and longingly, _Dean-_

Wait.

For a moment he sees nothing, and the operational part of his brain starts to slow the car.  Behind his vision, or beyond, he looks down into his groin, sees himself but also soft, giving, curvy hips, and a head of dirty-blond hair nodding up and down while the musky sweetness of you is drawn into the back of his throat.

Soon the Impala idles on the road’s shoulder while you and Sam sleep undisturbed, and Dean starts to breathe heavily as his mind’s eye watches his own elbow pull back and tuck out of sight.  

“No,” he whispers.  “Please… _no… Oh- Fff-!”_

Something firm pushes behind his balls, against the skin, and he jolts in his seat. He feels it breach nothing, then feels the phantom presence of two thick fingers pushing up into his body, sending sweetness ringing between his legs and back into his ass.  The index and middle fingers of his right hand go warm, invisibly tacky, and he starts to feel your pulse increase as the pressure inside him starts to move.

Wide-eyed and slack-lipped, Dean feels his own ears on his thighs while his head still nods away with dedicated (and extremely rewarding) attention, and his cock nearly hums with pleasure. His chest pumps up and down, and he grabs at the skin low on his tummy.

If he had any part of him spare he’d pray to the nearest God to keep Sam asleep because he’s quite sure now that your current dream - your sexy dream of Dean giving you the best head you’ve ever had - is being fed into his brain and he’s just found your g-spot.  His gut sucks up into his chest and his feet push into the footwell, lifting him off the seat a little but to no use.  It feels amazing, electric, and rapture throbs from behind his cock every time he strokes inside you.

_Oh Dean, it’s perfect…_

_Oh hell,_ he thinks, _it fucking is._  He purses his lips, bracing himself on the door and the seat as your panting synchronises.  The feeling is getting unbearable now, unusual and exquisite, and your dreamed thrashing makes him twitch against the car.  He licks nothing from his lips and tastes that felty musk with a suppressed moan.  He shuts his eyes tight as some sort of brilliant resonance starts thrumming out from above his balls, twisting his guts tight and pulling so sweetly on his ass it makes his ears throb.  It draws up, hot and thrilling, and suddenly Dean feels it snap: you’ve come, sparkling up your centre, you sighing lowly behind him, and he comes, quietly gasping “HUh! _Fffffffhhh_ -hhhho, hhhho-o-oh, hhhhhhhogod, hmmmmmm-” He crunches over, clenching his fingers and toes, as the thrill of your orgasm makes the aftershocks roll hard and full, your delicious bliss pulsing up into his lungs and down the major nerves of his legs.

Sweat breaks out across his brow, in the dip of his chest, and down the length of his spine.  He glances in the mirror and sees you on your back, face tucked into your arm where it’s flung above your head, your other pushing against the fly of your jeans.  You writhe as your orgasm ebbs, a pulse or two making Dean shudder and moan and grab the steering wheel for strength.

He waits, listening to the engine chug, letting the sparse traffic go by, and then, when he’s sure he’s stopped shaking enough, he drags his jacket over his lap, flicks on the indicator, and pulls back onto the road.  You stretch and groan and roll over, tucking yourself into the leather, and don’t move again for the rest of the trip.

At the bunker, parking the car doesn’t wake you, but Sam’s sucked in a big breath and blinked away his unconsciousness before the engine’s off.  He notices the jacket over Dean’s lap, then frowns as his awkward brother gets both feet on the ground to get out of the car.

After a quick glance back to check you, Sam whispers, _“Are you serious?”_ without giving Dean any benefit of the doubt.

“I do _**not**_ have to to talk about it!” Dean hisses back over his shoulder and shambles off to his room.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spell means that for Dean, all he wants is to please you.

Dinner is normal.  So very “normal”.  But also very short, because after 15 minutes of normal you’re almost too nervous to stand it.  

It’s the last night.  The last evening when you and Dean could take advantage of this spell and do whatever advantageous thing that might be.  It could be sex with telepathy.  It could be telepathic sex.  You could instruct him, make him want things, make him want to give you things- _No._  You don’t want that.  Not really.  You’re just fantasizing. Here is not the time, you remind yourself.

But you’re still terrified of hitting a peak you’ll never see again, of revealing things you’d rather keep hidden still.  After Dean’s joviality earlier today, then his evasive behaviour since the drive home, you’re thoroughly confused and have recovered your anxiety accordingly.

And now that both of you can control what’s shared or hidden in your minds, you’re maintaining conversations with Sam, and out loud with each other, and mentally with each other, and to yourselves, all at once.  It’s all very fraught.

Not to mention batting away flashes of that dream - the sight of him between your legs, his reach, that specific little throb - a loose mosaic of images and sensations to distract you from normal activities.  Right now, you’re doing your best to deliver casual, incidental, just-popped-into-my-head thoughts for Dean’s benefit, while keeping private thoughts to yourself.  It’s Who’s on first and What’s on second and you’re on the home straight to losing your mind.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice, which is good, but it may be because he’s apparently lost the plot. Outwardly he’s pleasant and polite but with a low-key mania that Sam is kindly tolerating.  Dean fills the space with chitchat and intense listening and after he’s talked almost non-stop and offered the salt and the pepper and a glass of water and a glass of orange juice, you’ve dropped your fork and glared at him _What the actual fuck?_

“What? I’m just doing nice things!  You’ve had a big day! Sue me for caring! Blood sugar!”  He’s loud and defensive and Sam chews slowly as he watches his brother not fix things.  “Hey maybe I’m nervous, too!” Dean declares.

_Nervous about what?_

_I don’t have to answer that,_ he snaps.

Holy crap, you think to yourself, we’re a mess.  Very soon, Dean’s collected his meal and gone to his room, unable to be sure his concerns can be kept secret, and afraid you’ll demand a truth.  You let him go without interference.

Sam suggests watching a movie.  Also very normal.  Dean slinks back out into the world when he hears _Aliens_ echoing down the corridors, and shares the couch with you, settling in with a friendly nod.  It seems you’ve both calmed down some.

 _You okay?_ you check.

_Yep.  All good.  We’ll just watch the movie._

_That’s what I think, too._

When Jonesy appears you start to hear Dean think for him, a kind of yearning colouring his mood.

 _You should cat,_ you send.   _It’d be a good way to spend the time._

Dean looks at you properly for the first time since you got back, and finally relaxes a little. It relaxes you, too.

 _*sssnk!*_ He’s gone, and his cat-self sits in his place.

“Holy shit, Dean,” Sam starts. “A little warning.”

Dean ignores him; he’s already curling himself on the couch, rolling and coiling and stretching, like a live rope of fur.  He ends up staring at the screen upside down, legs out in all directions.

“You’re showing off your nuts again,” Sam comments.

Dean tilts his head at his brother, then flipflops back to sit against the cushions, staring at Sam as he slumps over his well-spread back legs. Much grace, so elegance.  

He starts to lick his balls.

“OH!   _NO!”_ Sam’s nearly curled in on himself, hands fending off the sight. “Fuck Dude!  Don’t do that!”

You have your hands over your mouth, giggling shamelessly, and Dean keeps going.  Lick lick - “Mii- _yow_ ” - lick, lick, llllick-lick-lick - “Hhckhckhck!” he hacks, feigning a furball.

“Nohohoho!” Sam laughs.  “That’s frikken disgusting!!”

Dean struggles a little with the couch’s deep softness to get himself sitting, then leaps to the armrest and steps over to Sam’s chair.

Sam eyes his older brother warily and lets him walk onto his chest, realising too late that Dean means to lick his cheek too. “NO!” Sam grabs the ribs, but Dean latches onto Sam’s shoulders and climbs his claws to get closer.  “OW!  FUCK!  NO! You little shit! You just licked your ass with that tongue!”

 _Balls!_ He corrects.

“His balls, Sam,” you deliver.  “No ass.”

“Still gross!” Sam cries and lets go to pull Dean’s front legs away from his neck.  Dean has a good hold, though, and starts to snuggle in, pretending he truly came for a hug.

“Such bullshit,” Sam grumbles.

“I think he wants a pat,” you say.

“Oh, you _think!”_ Sam doesn’t believe you.  “You can read his mind and you _think_ he wants a pat!”

_I wanna pat._

“He wants to know what it’s like to get a pat from you,” you explain.  “How different it is from me.”

Sam takes a deep breath and prepares himself for another prank, reluctantly laying his hand on Dean’s shoulders and sliding it down his spine.  Then, because it feels nice to pat a cat, he starts again, higher, and drags heavy fingertips from temple to tail.  Dean melts into it and instantly starts a deep, loud purr.

Straight away, Sam says “This is weird.”

“He doesn’t care,” you report.  “It feels too good.”

A dozen or so strokes later, Dean lifts his head and gazes at Sam with eyes that close at the top of each stroke.  Sam’s still rather rigid, not trusting his brother, but not wanting to be unkind.  He glances between the movie and Dean tucked right next to his chin, becoming more wary of that sphinx-like pose.

_Sure knows how to handle a pussy._

You snort loudly, crumpling in on yourself, and Sam glares, “What?! What!!” looking at you and double-chinning a frown at Dean for all of five seconds before he guesses.  “Did you make a pussy joke?”

_*donk!*_

With an affectionate headbutt to Sam’s jaw, Dean pushes off and trots back across the furniture to you, climbs up your body and lays his head on your shoulder. _Pats are nice_ , he says.

_Sam pats are good?_

_A bit heavy.  You’re just right._

You stroke him generously and watch the film, the purring soundtrack from Dean warming you like a blanket. He tucks himself under your ear with his tongue poking out and spends the rest of the film dozing or nudging you for more attention.

…

You were politely off to your room as soon as the credits began.  Now Dean goes about getting ready for bed with automatic hands and unseeing eyes.

You’ve been quiet.

Not hidden, as far as he can tell, just… not talking to him.  He knows he’s been guarded and uncomfortable about this afternoon’s dream accident, and he’s pretty pleased the last few hours haven’t been so stupid.  But you’ve been quiet.

And he can feel enough to know it’s not because you’re tired or that you have nothing to say.  You’re keeping things from being said.

Then he realises, with heart-clenching guilt, how you relaxed when he eased off and stopped doing… whatever it is he’s been doing.

As soon as it’s apparent to him, he feels the devotion of the spell compel him again.  He needs things to be set right and won’t be able to sleep until they are.

…

“I have a confession.”  Dean’s looking at your bed from the hallway, stalling you both from going in.  He’s in his sleep clothes and you’re ready for bed too, your toiletry bag still in your hands as you wait outside the doorway to listen.  “I saw your dream this afternoon.”

“You- Wha-at?” you stutter.  “What what?”

“I saw what you dreamed, and I saw it as you.”

You put your hands over your face and Dean hears you groan long and mortified both inside and out.  “Noooo, nonono, _how?!”_ You look up at him.  “I was asleep! Oh God!” You bury your face again.  “That was so explicit!”

“It- It might’ve been my fault,” he winces.  “I was kinda thinking along those lines already and, I dunno, maybe I sent them your way and you…  Just.  Joined in.”

You scramble for the right words, starting with “I’m so sorry!  I don’t-  I’m sorry, I wish I could-”

“No, you don’t need to apologise,” he says, “really.  I just wanted to say that,” deep breath, “if you don’t want anything to happen, then neither do I.”

You look at him and think of what he’s saying.  “Really?”

“I mean, I _do_.  You know.  But if you want to wait and see what things are like tomorrow, that’s fine with me.”  He says it steadily and firmly and tilts his eyebrows with a small smile that says he understands and wants you happy.  “Really.  I’m so fine. There’s no rush.”

A wave of relief flows towards Dean. You fill your chest and start to nod. _Oh, thank god.  Thank you._

“That’s okay,” Dean smiles.  Then it’s like the sky has cleared and the air has warmed.  You’ve relaxed and he didn’t know how tightly wound he was till you’ve stretched your back and put your hands on your hips, sighing, _Hokay._

He feels good for having said what you needed to hear, and now it seems like the easiest thing he’s ever done.  He’s made you happy.  You smile at him, easily, thankfully, and with a sweet openness he hasn’t seen in days.  He feels proud that he’s looking after you, and tries to forget how long it took him to figure it out.

“Well, that said,” you start, a little shyly.  “I was actually going to ask if you needed to stay in my room tonight.  Like, curl up on the blankets or whatever, if being apart sucks at all.”  It’s also the last night of you caring for him and the the distress of last night’s separation is still bitter in your memory.

Dean makes a little joke, scoffing and dropping his hands onto his hips like _What? I so screwed that up_.  It makes you laugh, giggle even, with a _Y-heah, after all that,_ and he licks his lips, a slow smile pulling into his cheeks while he watches you be happy because of him.

He’s going to wait for you.

“I think I’d be okay, you know, because we’re here, safe an’ all,” he starts, then looks around at where he curled his tail around the chair leg and where he got his arm stuck in the collar.  “But it’d be nice.”  He looks back at you, nodding a little, hoping you won’t mind much and you nod in a happy reply.

You go into the room and put your things down, and Dean follows you in before closing the door.  He notices the change in your silence, that it’s easier and you’re not just keeping your mouth shut.  You pull back the covers and Dean talks while you both climb onto the mattress and take your sides, lying to face each other with an arm under the pillow and the other over the blanket.  “I feel like you’ve been so closed off to me.  Did you put up a wall or something?”

“Pretty much,” you admit.  “When I woke up in the car and you’d gone already, that made me a bit nervous.  I felt guilty enough about having that dream, and that was before I knew you got a brain-full of it.  I’ve just never meant to encourage you.”

“I know,” he says gently.  “You haven’t.”

You lean up to beat your pillow into a good shape, and starting thinking to him while you do.   _Ohmygod, how about Julia and Leanne in their hazmat suits?_ You smile.

Dean starts laughing while his mind says, _It’s **alright!**  I’m a chemist! Stand aside people! _ His face acts it out before he’s done. _  
_

You giggle aloud too, joining in. _They were all like, We’re ready guys! I got my proton pack-_

“Ahahaha!” _Ectoplasm!_

_So sensible!  Holy cow, they were brave.  That fucking dog-_

_Sam was shitting bricks, not that I blame him._

_Poor Claire.  I think she feels so responsible._

_Fucking witches._

You shift yourself a bit, re-tucking the covers, and go on silently, not brave enough to speak aloud.  Dean finds your mind is so open now that he can hear the background thoughts you probably don’t really hear yourself say.   _Did it hurt? When you fought Trisna? (It hurt me.  Actually, yeah, really hurt!)_

He’s quiet for a while, thinking about it.  The memory replays to you from his perspective and you feel his fear and pain at the look on your face, your body rigid and hot inside the circle. _I had to be there._

_I know._

_It was like pulling you out of her arms, climbing over you…_ he tries to describe it, but your mind can see what he’s talking about.   _I just wanted to throw her into the sky, off you, scrunch her up in my hands and crush her into nothing.  I kept thinking Not my… something.  I was so angry that she was where I should be_ \- “Not where _I_ should be but-”

“No, I know,” you assure him, your hand reaching over for his.  “If anyone, you mean.”

“Yeah.” His fingers squeeze.

“I’m so glad you were.  I’m so thankful.”   _You did everything you should’ve, better than me._

 _I could’ve backed the fuck off a little earlier_ , he thinks, his gaze dropping to your hands.

 _You don’t know that you could’ve_ , you tell him, but Dean can also feel the _Yeah, maybe_ at the back of it.

Your eyes wander over his shoulder, where the t-shirt stops on his arm and you remember it wrapped around you when you both stood in the soapy water, when he caught you as he stood tall by the Impala on the way to Denver that first time.

Dean doesn’t say anything, doesn’t smile or egg you on.  He remembers along with you, your fragrance mostly and the way you bowed against him.

“Did you say you saw the dream as me?” You talk quietly, just slightly louder than your mind.

You see Dean put his front teeth together and blink at you while he thinks of how to explain what he saw.  Then you see what he saw, and it makes you hold your breath for a moment because there’s a tickle inside you, an echo of the pleasure and thickness.  “Oh,” you gasp slowly.  “You felt it?”

Dean bites his lip and looks off into space.  “Mm,” he confirms.  He’s trying not to be embarrassed but your eyes widen because now you can feel something like tightness, and skin you don’t have, pulling on your groin, heavy, fat and needy, and taste yourself on your own tongue.

You swallow hard.  “That whole thing?” you whisper.

“Mm-hmm.”  Closed eyes, serious nod.

You bite your lips together, not knowing which angle to take… “Was it good for you?”

 _Jesus Christ Y/N!_ His mouth crumples into a fought smile, nose scrunched at the memory, and he buries his face in the pillow.  “Yes,” he muffles.  “It was fucking amazing.”

You laugh at him, patting him lightly on the head.  “Oh no, my poor pussy.”

“AAAH!” He groans and laughs with you at your terrible joke, eventually punching the pillow back where it belongs and ruefully watching you get it together again.

It’s such an intimate moment, sharing these things, and you feel the undertow of how much you want more, more of this, more of him like this, more of yourself found. For the briefest breath you’ve a spike of caution so, before your thoughts can give it away, you shut it down to keep things from going any further. “O-okay, well, on that note, maybe we should say goodnight.” You smile before he can spot it, focus on his sweet shyness, and reach back to turn off the lamp.

Dean smiles, happy to be made fun of, very happy if this is how it makes you sound.  This is the cheery hum and openness he’s missed in you. “Okay, goodnight,” he says.

“Good night.”   _Love you._

A little “oop!” leaves your lips before your fingers get there, as though they could feel if those words came out or not.  You’re not even sure if they happened in secret or if Dean heard, and a frustrated flash of regret heats your gut.

A neat sucking sound happens, and the bed shifts, the covers moving oddly.  Then Dean’s forehead, small and soft, ducks in under your chin and he drags his feline form along your jaw and shoulder, crawling under your hand when you lift it, and curling into a neat coil in front of your chest.  He’s quiet, soothing, and rolls around a bit, then resettles himself so he can lay long against your body, his back paws on your thighs and his head close enough for you to nuzzle your mouth between his ears.  You give his chest a quick rub to calm yourself and forget about your lapse.

_Goodnight Y/N.  I’ll see you tomorrow._

Like this, his voice sounds even stronger, deeper, and thrums in your chest so lovingly you think you might cry.  It’ll be gone soon, and he’ll go back to-  but you can’t think those feelings right now.  Leave that till tomorrow, too, you tell yourself, just think about how lucky you’ve both been so far.

You both sleep long and deep and you dream of fiddly string, grasshoppers and roast chicken, which Dean thinks is the cutest gift ever.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, finally, the spell ends today. And you’re scared as all hell.

You sleep in much more than usual, till midmorning.

Dean wakes on top of the covers, pointing in the opposite direction to you.  You’re turned away, the shapes of you all girly and enticing.  He’s looked for you so much this past week and he thinks of the unique comfort he’s felt at seeing your form, not even noticing how it appears, just that it’s there, and well, and near.

He lifts his head and considers the desk chair, then makes to leap over to it and - **THU-BUMP!**

“Oh!” he wheezes.  “F-ck!”

You lift your head and blink back over your shoulder, watching Dean climb off the floor and rub his hip.  “Did you forget you weren’t a cat right now?”

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Still… very graceful.”

“Uh huh.”

“Just going to the bathroom,” he mumbles automatically.

“Ok, well,” you lean up and roll back onto both elbows, “I’m probably going to get up and get some breakfast.”

He pauses in the doorway and looks at you and your purposeful words.  You’re going to go, and do ‘routine things’, is what you mean. You’re nervous.  “Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ll catch you there.”

He doesn’t catch you at breakfast.  And he can’t seem to find you for much of the morning.  It makes him anxious, even though he knows it’s affected, because even though the spell doesn’t care that it’s ending today, _he_ knows it is and it feels like you’re going to slip out of his hold to God Knows Where.

He goes to your room, then the library, then storage, the kitchen, your room again, the bathrooms, then he cats up and starts trotting down the corridors, missing lunchtime altogether. At one point he turns a corner and finds Sam saying, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Dean un-cats and says, “Yeah, I’m just looking for Y/N.”

“It’s just, you’re meowing everywhere,” Sam says sorely.  “I was worried.”

“Sorry,” Dean steps towards him, “I didn’t realise.  Sorry.”  He pulls out his phone texting _Where are you?_  “I haven’t seen her all day.”

“When’s the spell end?”

“In about an hour,” Dean mutters, staring at his screen until it bleeps back.  “In the fuckin’ garage,” he sighs incredulously.   _What’s she doing there?_

“I hope it goes okay,” Sam says.  “And I hope the weekend works out.”

“Are you going somewhere?” Dean asks, assuming that means they won’t see each other because Sam’s away.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam smiles.  “I’m going to spend it with Sarah. Heading out this afternoon.”

“Nice!” Dean nods.  “Very nice! Okay! Well, I hope they have a good pool table,” he grins.

Sam smiles, rolls his eyes in a weak attempt at seeming embarrassed.  “Thanks, man.”

Dean smacks him on the arm and starts off for the garage.  He finds you there, sitting sideways in the passenger seat of your car, feet on the ground.

“Hey,” he says, half-calling, half-puffed, “I’ve been looking for you.”

You stand silently, not really feeling the need to apologise aloud because it’s just the spell making him antsy, and if _you_ can ignore your compulsions then so should… you frown at yourself for your coldness, which he sees.

“What’s going on?”  The wall is back up.  Dean starts to worry again.

You clear your throat.  “So, initially, I was going to ask that we spend this bit apart,” you begin.  “I um.”  This is harder than you you thought it’d be.  The damn spell is so thorough.  “Sometime in the next hour you’re going to stop being my familiar, and I’ll stop being your witch.  And I don’t think-” You look up at him and speak honestly, “I don’t think I really need to see that change happen. I’d rather not watch you… you know.”

You think he’s going to fall out of love with you, basically.

“I figure the clock will tick over and it should, in theory, just finish.” You wobble your head, shrugging at him because _We barely felt it begin, right?_

 _Yeah, right._  Dean nods upwards and his chest starts to tighten and race with everything: your hurt, your fear, and his need to quell them, his confidence that you’re wrong about the temporary nature of his affection, about its falsehood, and the fact that you’re going to keep yourself from him.  He’s been looking forward to the minutes after the spell lifts so you can see how he really feels, so he can explain it to you, show you even.  They’re imaginings that kept him calm while he searched for you.  He watches you intently, keeping those worries inside and letting you finish before he chooses an angle.

“And I was going to say just, you know, text me, after, but um.  Claire is giving us - sorry, I forgot to tell you this - she’s given us her cabin for the weekend.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Dean says pointedly.  “Sam and Sarah are away too.  You sure you don’t wanna-” He points back at the bunker rooms with half a suggestion.

“No I- I gave him the leftover money from that really swanky motel we stayed at,” you smile. “Told him to spend it all at once.”

“Right,” Dean starts to understand.  “So there’s this cabin.”

“I’m going to go,” you say firmly, and close the passenger door as though you’ve rehearsed it.  “Because, you know, if you want to come to the cabin too, well then, we’ll enjoy a cabin together, but if you don’t want to spend a weekend with me in a cabin then it’ll give me a chance to get my bearings and clear my head and just… figure things out.”  You let out what’s left of your breath and push your hands into your pockets.

Dean’s pulse races.  You can feel how he fights with himself.  The idea of you driving away makes his hands clench into fists, but he knows that’s the spell.  The idea of you ‘clearing your head’ has him feeling a whole other kind of panic, but then he’ll follow you there and it’ll be fine. He thinks.

“I don’t expect it’ll be very eventful, but I’m sorry I’m leaving you alone for this final part,” you tell him.  “Honestly my instinct is to hold your hand until the last second, but it’s the moments after that, you know?  …And you’re a grown man.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” he agrees and shifts his feet to help calm himself.  “It’s what, like, 40 minutes till go time.  I’ll go scratch a tree or something.”

“No, you’ll stay in your room,” you point at him.  “You stay inside.  Don’t do anything risky.  No nook exploring, no heights, nothing.  Dull, boring, bedroom-based activities.  In human form.”

“Okay! I got it!” He’s palms up, grizzling his promise. “Jeez.  Boredom all the way.”  But being told to stay safe, you bossing him into self-care, dammit that’s nice too.

You rub your forehead and try to think clearly.  “If you decide to come, just let me know when you’re leaving.”

You step back a bit and strengthen yourself with a big, deep breath.  “Thank you.  You’ve been wonderful.  I mean, I went and fucked it up over and over again -”

Oh no, Dean doesn’t think he can hear this, but you push past his brain wanting to run.

“- I made you a cat instead of a dog, and then I stumbled with it, -”

He feels like you’re about to cry, and he hates it, hates this speech.

“- and then I didn’t even kill her properly, and every day, you were just so _good_.  You were patient and supportive-”

“Are you dying?”  God he’s uncomfortable; it’s a terrible joke.

“What?” You stare at him.  “No!”

“What are you talking about?!”  It’s almost a whisper and he’s pleading, annoyed. He isn’t ready for goodbyes.  He just wants you to stay, and stay as you are.  He’s ready to give in and do whatever the spell wants.

And it’s killing you.  You’re going to lose him, him like this.  Dedicated.  Devoted.  Yours.  You’ll never have Dean like this again.

Seconds suspend themselves while you stare and watch the other fight wants and needs…

You mumble “I’m sorry,” and turn away, out of his reach before he can catch your arm, walking the long way around the car to get in the driver’s side.

You start the engine and put it in reverse and Dean calls, “I’ll see you in a few hours,” with a face that says he means it.  You nod a “Yep,” and smile before turning to back out to the road.

….

Dean puts himself in his room.  He closes the door and looks at his things, waiting for something to jump out and distract him but nothing could be enticing enough.  He does push-ups.  He does sit-ups.  He leans his forearms against the door and stretches out his calves, occupies the parts of him that want to hold, grab, and run.

He keeps imagining the road, long and straight, disappearing into the distance with your car forever at the end, where you can’t hear him yell or think, and it’s almost a dream state while he imagines how he couldn’t run fast enough to reach you.  

When his eyes refocus he sees his fist turning the doorknob back and forth, the metal straining into his palm as his weight pushes it closed.  Then he registers the soreness of his fingertips, having dragged them down the wood over and over.  He stands up straight, peering at the blistered skin, and unconsciously turns the handle again.  The spring of the latch pops the door open a half-inch.

 _I’ll just check she didn’t come back_ , he thinks, pretending there’s something at all to see.  

He does a lazy jog down the halls, then picks up speed through the library and at the stairs, as he takes them two at a time, the action starts to feel like something he forgot to do, that he’s too late, that you’re leaving, or gone, and suddenly he’s lunging across the platform, breathing harshly through his teeth as he wrestles the heavy front door, and he _runs_.

All of him is strained - cheeks, brow, jaw, his legs stretching the gait harder than he can recall, thighs pushing and heels reaching.  “Shit, I’m sorry!  I’m coming!” His words are quiet behind his puffing, things he can hardly keep from saying.  He’s sprinting as hard as he can down the road, where he last saw you go, fully dedicated to finding you somewhere on this land.  “I’ll be there!” His words wheeze and scratch at his throat, and he starts to sweat.  “I’m sorry! Y/N!  Be right there!”

Vaguely he wonders where this comes from, the utter dismay at failing you, losing you, letting you go in the first place, and he watches the world jolt by as he uselessly exhausts himself, belting down their no-name road.   _I’m sorry Y/N!_  He throws his thoughts, where the effort doesn’t drain him, flings regret and hope out across the fields. _I’m sorry! So sorry!  Stay right there!  Wait for me!  Wait!!_  The words loop around, and after a while he wonders wonders how everything is still so far away.

Then his stride starts to slacken, and his legs start to wobble, and soon he’s groaning “Aah!  Ah!  Y/N!  Hah!” as he gives in to the futility, winding down the chase into a loose, thudding jog and leaning on his knees.  “Y/N!”  Dean shakes his head, unaware of the tears amongst the sweat because his throat’s on fire, lungs burning dry, heart galoping, and the pain is all muddled up inside.  He crumples down onto his hands and knees, slumping back to sit on his feet with shaking hands lying limp on his thighs.  “Ah shit, Y/N!” he puffs, rocking back and forth, as if to start a crawl.  “Shit… Ahuh… oh fuck…”

There’s this distance, right in front of him, and he can’t beat it in time.  He’s going to fail you.

Finally, he gives in and Dean’s face pulls tight as he sobs, full of shame and fear and regret. He holds his stomach as he leans, lets the sharp stones dig into his palm, ready to have a good cry at his loss and then, on one inhale, it lifts.

The ringing in his ears fades away.  He’s able to look around now, see things other than where he thought you went, and he looks down at himself on the highway, kneeling in the gravel.  

It’s just him here, all by himself…

Not a soul for miles.

His muscles relax, he sniffs and blinks, and starts breathing out instead of in.

“Ah, crap it.” He didn’t bring his phone, so, without too much pause, he pushes off the ground and turns back, not really willing to gauge the distance he’s come, and jogs all the way home so you’re not left worrying for too long.

…

For half an hour you talk as though he’s there.  “It’s for the best!” you shrug.  “And it‘s not like anything’s going to happen.  I just, I need to be sensible.” You smile to help realise the thoughts.  “You’ll be fine.  You will, you’ll be fine… It’ll pass.”  You nod at the windscreen and keep talking to make your mouth behave.   “It’ll pass, and you’re strong,” you tell Dean, wherever he is, “it’ll feel like nothing, after.”  Your teeth chatter for a second and you force your knotted throat to swallow again.  “I just, I don’t think I should be too close to you right now.  I need to look after both of us and sometimes, sometimes that doesn’t look like what you want, Dean.”

You sound calmer in your mind.  In there you can use a tone that toes the line, instead of leaning over it towards betrayal and pain.  You send your sense to him and pretend your face isn’t wrung with shame.  _Just wanting to isn’t a good enough reason.  Stay there.  You’ll be fine._

But Dean can’t hear you.  Your thoughts and words shoot out into the air and hit nothing, unclaimed and homeless, and you start to feel a lonely dread because you know deep down that this isn’t just a want, it’s a need, glamoured or not.  You know that to him it will _feel_ like a need.  You know he’s back there somewhere, trying not to suffer, for you.  And you’ve come too far to get back in time.

You let your mind pummel your heart with images of him anxious, pacing, maybe frantic.  He could be desperate from abandonment, helpless without you.  His voice is recreated in your ears, far higher than is comfortable, pleading your name and heaving with fear, and then the persistent mewl of a stranded soul begins, small and cold, and a high noise comes from you as you wince through it, leaning forward and pulling on the wheel.

“It’ll pass.”  Your words wheeze over wet lips.  “It’ll pass Dean, and you’ll be fine.  Please.  You’ll be fine.”

At some point you start hitting the steering wheel with a rigid hand, beating away the mistake you can’t undo.  Crying is perfectly normal in this instance, you’re sure, but the jittering guilt eventually makes you pull over and you let yourself go.  You grab at your arms, your waist, and stomp your feet into the carpet, fighting the emptiness of your embrace.   _It’s the right thing! Please! I forgive you!!_

Throwing off the seat belt, you fight the door and fall from the car, whimpering with remorse.  “Uh God!  Dean!  I’m sorry!!” Desperate and blind, you can’t walk away and you shouldn’t walk back.  At the rear of the car you hold onto the corner light and tilt towards home, sometimes leaning both hands on the trunk, but never letting go.  

Pulling your phone from your pocket, you fumble through the code and stab at blurry icons. You don’t want to talk to him, you’re terrified of hearing him upset, but what if he wants you to call… 

The ring tone trills, thin through the noise of your mind, and you rub your chest, press knuckles against the pressure, and feel the tears drop onto your hand.  You didn’t think the connection between you was that physical but your heart is surely pulled against your ribs, like it’s grown a nerve to his that’s stretched impossibly thin, all of you vibrating with the tension, and if were to snap, you’d fall in a heap and he’d just float off into the sky.

“You’ve reached Dean Winch-”  
“ _NO!_ Nononono!“ It’s worse somehow, and you thump your fist on your thigh before looking at the horizon again, as though you could wish him into view.  “ _Dean!_ I’m so sorry!” you whisper the words down the road, trying to ease the pain as you bend and straighten. “I’m sorry Dean!  I’m Sorry!”

Soon it’s a struggle just to keep yourself off the ground and you walk your feet on the spot to keep moving.  Broken, heaving sobs pull on your shoulders and cramp your gut as you mourn the imminent loss of your familiar, a connection so unique and cherished, and squandered, too.  You cry, whimpering “I’m sorry Dean! Please… please, please…” because it was only seven days, and you cry for not telling him he was so good more often, not learning to care for him as well as you should’ve, for not trying to master it.  You cry in shame, and regret, and for longing and loss.

And then, it’s gone.

Lifted.

You blink through the wetness, straighten yourself, and look around the car, feeling a depth of distance you haven’t perceived in a week, nothing between you and anywhere.  No soul connected to yours.  Just as you were, maybe stronger.  And for a moment, you feel fine.  Autonomous.  Clear.

You’re you again, pretty much.

You can see again.

Slowly, with more strength than you expected, you wipe your hands down your shirt and get back into the car.  You restart the engine and consider the distance, and it’s something that has nothing to do with anyone else.  You don’t even know where Dean is, really, and technically it doesn’t matter.  You can go any direction you like.  It feels so easy.

You could keep going, too, if you had to.  Skip the cabin and just go, find a place.  You could be strong and far away.  You could see what you’re capable of, on your own.  

You let the car idle and feel yourself for a while, just get used to this kind of quiet before you run off to start the next thing…

Cheeks dried, nose wiped, you check your phone before pulling out and it buzzes just before you put it down again.   _What’s the address?_ says Dean’s text.

For a moment you consider telling him to give you a day, or to not come at all.  But there doesn’t seem much point, not if he wants to be there.  You copy the location from Claire’s contact and send it through.

His reply is immediate: _Race you_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you have this cabin...

Dean sits on his bed, fingering the leather collar he’s kept around his neck for the past week.  He’s a little confused about it.  He’d promised himself, days ago, that he would not be embarrassed about wearing this thing, not then and not in hindsight.  He was proud, at the time, to be yours and cared for.  And as much as he does not want to wear a collar any more, he’s still reluctant to leave it off.

The quiet in his head and the solitude is almost normal.  He didn’t realise how well he’d come to like your presence there, like a friend on the bench.  The idea of it feels intrusive now, supervisory, and not particularly welcome, but he knows he misses you.  He misses the weather and the company.  

What he does have now, though, is autonomy. He remembers your worry before the spell even started - _You cannot be bound to anyone like this_ , you said - and he looks at the collar thinking of how close he came to just that.  He was so happy to defer before, to let the boundary of him blur with yours.

His phone says you’ve sent another reply:   _Give me an hour.  Don’t bring any food!_

 _There around 6_ , he thumbs in, which is lots of time for you to settle in.  He starts packing his bag and thinks of how he can now take himself - his whole self - to you.

….

The cabin sits halfway up the crease of a small mountain, its skirt of forest like a welcome mat for the view of plains and lakes.  It smells like soil, damp leaves and water.  The sun rises late and sets early and all the wood is slippery, dark and magically green.

The noise of the Impala drifts up the hillside 10 minutes before it appears in the driveway.  It looks perfect in the late afternoon, and you open the door, letting in some fresh air to flush out the early smell of lighting a fire.

_He’s come, you think.  Well, what else does he have to do with his weekend?  We’re still friends for fuck’s sake…  He did drive over 3 hours for me, so there’s that.  But he loves driving._

_Fuck, it was quieter with two of us in my head._

You stuff a corner of the tea-towel into your back pocket and lean against the porch post at the top of the steps, watching Dean get out of the car.

“This is pretty special.”  He swings his bag over his shoulder and the slam of the trunk is the last unnatural sound the outdoors hear.

He’s happy to see you, you guess, and seems relaxed and energised.  You wish he’d parked further away just so you could watch him walk towards you some more, that ease and weight-free swagger.  He seems taller, or lighter, or the space around him is more than it was before. It’s like you’ve been looking into him, behind his eyes, and now you have to decide what to look at, or wait and see what he offers up.

“You should see what’s in the oven.”

“No, you serious?”  He practically sparkles at the news, standing beyond the porch steps. “What is it?”

“Just a roast.”

“Just a roast.  Damn.”  

His eyes don’t leave you and you can’t miss a moment, but you’re going to tip off the floor if you don’t make yourself say something.  “How are you?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he shrugs. “Same.”  That’s it.  Like this week never was, and certainly with no indication that the day’s been at all long.

“Same? Same as what?  Same as yesterday when you would’ve thrown yourself in front of a bus for me? Or same as last week?”

“When I threw myself into a spell for you?” He tilts his head a few times, looking around in thought.  “Um, yeah.  Same.”

How the hell did you communicate before?  How did you ever have a proper thought while he looked at you? You can’t even recall.

Dean’s smile is back, tugging on one side, and there’s no way you can’t smile too, so you turn for the door before he thinks he’s won.

“How are you?”  His words reach out to stop you, and you look back to see he’s got one foot on the step, and that his concern is honest.

“I’m okay.” You can do half truths too.

At that he lets you go, follows you into the cabin and closes the door.

Dean kicks off his boots as he looks around: The cabin is basically one main room, divided into four spaces, with a separate laundry and bathroom behind it all.  The first thing he notices, after the aroma of dinner, is the one large bed over to the left, against the back wall, with a wooden chest at its foot.  Before that is a loveseat facing a coffee table and the fireplace set into the front wall on his left; there’s a full bookshelf too, little tables and a comfy chair.  The dining table - half set, with wine already popped - is right of the front door, and it’s divided from the kitchen by an island bench.  Then he realises that it’s a tallboy dresser that separates the bed from the kitchen space and the bathroom must be beyond the door between them.

“You should see the tub,” you say, pulling out the meat to rest.  “It’s massive, got _claw_ feet.  You’d have to do the string-and-cans thing to talk with the other person.”

Dean throws his bag on the chest and comes to investigate the fridge, pulling out a beer.  “Wow, how many cheeses do we need, you think?”

“Oh, well there’s brunch, nibbles, pre-dinner, and supper, so, you know.”

“Are you really okay?” He tosses the bottle top into the sink.  “You seem… something.”

“Ummm.”  Putting the plates down, you lean against the bench to see him while he leans against the fridge.  “I am.  Okay is… yeah.  It kinda depends.”

“On what?”

“You,” you admit.  “And me, after that.”

Dean does a little sideways nod, smirking at his own thoughts.

“What?”

“Nothin’.  Bad joke.”

“Yeah I’m used to your bad jokes now,” you complain quietly, busy with the dinner.  “I miss them.”

He angles himself towards you when you get near, watches you tidying things.  “So, you okay I came?”

You nod, and look into his green depths to be sure nothing made him come to find you.  “Yeah.”  Last check.  “Why have you come?”

“‘Cause I want to spend the weekend with you,” Dean says, eyes widening for the last part, “in a _cabin_.”

You choke on nervous laughter and clear your throat, noticing then that his neck is bare of the collar.  As it should be, really.

You collect some cutlery from the drawer at your thighs.  “Well, it is a gorgeous cabin.  It’s like the glamping of cabins, by our standards.  It’s a glabbin!”  You move your things to the other bench and find a carving knife.  “I mean, there’s a gravy boat!  Oh!  And good whiskey,” you say pointedly.

Dean’s silent for an infuriatingly long moment.  “All the luxury I need,” he murmurs, and finally takes a sip.

Another deep breath and you find yourself listening to the oven’s hum, the crackling fire, the birds finishing their day, all perfectly adequate sounds when you can’t hear Dean think.  You consider carving the meat while your brain tries to talk for him, in place of his voice, and because you’re so used to the easy live-feed of thought, the compulsion to prompt something real can’t be stopped.  “Why the thoughtful face?”

Dean breaks out of his wondering, then comes over to hold the plates so you can dish out the food.  “Uuh… just… trying to guess what you’re thinking,” he says.  “Which I’ll have to get used to again.”

 _Me too._  You smile along with the thought and he blinks at you curiously, quickly mirroring you to cover.  “Uh, me too,” you say.  Dean nods and takes a deep breath.

The tongs aren’t doing the job, and you look for a proper fork to hold the roast.  Dean shuffles the plates in his hands to offer you a regular dining fork saying ”Here.” But you’ve found what you want and your “Oh, thank- thanks- I’ve got-” muddles with his “Sorry, you got it,” and you both watch what you’re doing with great scrutiny until the awkward moment passes.

Wow, it’s actually not like it was, not like last week and not last month.  You really have no idea what he’s thinking or how he feels, except for what he tells you, which seems like just a quarter of the page, or every third word. You’re sure if you could just frikken _think_ hard enough you’d probably pull his thoughts from out of the air around his head.

All that self management, that nervous gatekeeping, you’d take it again for the ease you enjoyed when you knew he could hear you, when your minds were together.  There’s no happy tone of his mood, no colour in your mind, it’s all a mystery and so very mundane.   But you should want this, as it is, and you scold yourself for wishing for more and imagining you could get it all back.  

Because really, this is it.  This is as good as it gets, and it’s the stuff of dreams. He’s right there, and it’s normal and _nice_ , him in his t-shirt and plaid, you barefoot and busy.  His breathing beside you is easy, and he smells like he showered before he left. It’s already one of the loveliest evenings you’ve ever had, with likely more promise than you know.  You’re doing your best to believe it.

 _His physical self and spoken thoughts should be enough_ , you remind yourself. _People do without telepathy **just fine.**_

“This everything?”

“Uh, yeah!” You grab the authentic silverware and follow him to the table, laying things out around the plates.

You pull out your chair and Dean ducks back to grab his drink and when he returns, drinking as he sits, you notice his wrist: the collar is doubled around it, over his watch.  You glance up at him and he pretends he doesn’t notice, so you pretend you don’t either.   _I wouldn’t need that anymore,_ you think.  

Then you have to blink yourself back to the present because you haven’t been simply imagining; you’ve been planning.  You loosen your jaw so you can eat.

Having your mind to yourself should make keeping secrets easier, in theory, yet somehow it isn’t.  It just feels like lying.

“Well this is a whole other kind of magic,” he says, and picks up his bottle to chink it to your glass.  “Here’s to expensive food and good cooks.”

“And boring weekends,” you add.  He hmm’s through his sip and smiles at your smiling at him.

The wine tastes bitter, like mistakes, and you don’t comment on it because you’re fairly sure the flavour is from your own mouth, tucked back behind your tongue and drying across your lips.  You know.

You’re lying to him right now.  And you’re going to keep doing it.  You take another sip, wincing at the tainted tannins, and let yourself swallow it down like punishment.  You’ll take it has a half justice for this time you’re stealing, because if your worst fears come true, if he can’t forgive you, it’ll be worth it to have eaten a meal with just the two of you, and pretend-

“Oh man, Y/N.  This alone is worth the three hours on the road.  What is this glaze?!”

He can’t even guess at what you’re thinking when you smile back like that.  “Uh, just mustard and honey, some herbs.”

There’s every chance you’re going to hurt him, again.  So you take another bite and play on and give yourself what might be a last night of normalcy and family with Dean eating your food and watching your hands move.  

You begin gathering the moments.  “Do you feel any different?”

“No.  Oh, I mean, I noticed it end.” He takes another sip. “Fucking, almost broke myself to be honest, trying not to freak out about you leaving me.”  The words come out with more force than is due, because he’s playing it down.

It’s harder to hear than you expected.

He nods and forks more food, dabs of glaze smearing across his lips with each messy helping. “But once it’d passed I’s pretty frikken happy.”

“Oh.  Good.”  Your brain almost grinds to a halt at his comment.  You offer the gravy boat to distract yourself and Dean nods in thanks.

Then he thinks again, talking before all the meat is in his mouth.  “Wait, I mean; I was happy because I could tell how I felt.  I was sure about what was me and what was you.”

“Right.”   _Right.  Of course._   Although that doesn’t really draw the line about where his feelings stand.  But if he’s willing to come all the way here, and tell you, then it must be a good feeling, right?  Or maybe you could think a little less and just, you know, eat because _Dean came_.

“So I have to ask,” Dean starts, clearing his mouth, “when you thought of a cat, when we did the spell at the start, did I turn out how you imagined?”

“I uh, I think I thought of a kitten, actually.”

He stops and stares at you.  “A kitten?  Like a fluffy little ball of cuteness?”

“Yes. Exactly that.  Blue-eyed, and white,” you clarify, and realise just how close to uselessness he was. “And mewling.”

Dean blinks at you as he tongues something from a tooth.  “…Well I think we got lucky there huh?”

“Yeah, I think that was probably all our luck.” You dive your hand for your wine and glance at him as you drink, but he gets back to his meal, his smile growing about something you don’t know.  His glances last longer, and the tease to your curiosity grates on you like it did at the bar. You need more talk.  “Could you tell how much power we had?”

“Yes,” he nods.  “I was so proud.”

“Not scared?”

“Nope.  Loved it.”

You push back against your hope.

“Felt like we had a real chance, without involving Sam.  Not that I was right, but… the potential.  Felt good.”

“It was hard not to get arrogant about it sometimes,” you comment.

He nods emphatically and _Mm-hmm_ s around his food.

Then the conversation finds its rhythm in reflections of the past week, and you play along just fine.

You tell him how afraid you were of the control you had over him, how much you yearned for his devotion, how miserable you were imagining it gone. You focus on sipping wine to cover looking at the way he looks at you.

He tells you how well-rested he felt under your care, but also the vague unease he had at wanting to put you before Sam no matter what.  He describes how complacent he was about you being inside his mind.

“Would you do it again?” you wonder, “Knowing now what it would be like?”

“Yah.”  He tries to nod through more sipping, and adds “but not for like, _forever_.”

You tell him about the girls and the conversation you first had in the bar, how you got so jealous of them considering him that you practically threw Sam to the wolves.  He laughs, asking for more, because he saw the way they hung on you and he listens with a delighted, open smile at the compliments they didn’t hide.

Dean tells you how he and Sam agreed you were the hottest woman there and he didn’t even care that Sam really, very much agreed.  He saw Sam watch you play pool and he kinda liked it.  “Were you proud? Of me?” you ask, curious about his expression.

“Yeah!” he nods, wide-eyed.  “We used to compete and, I mean, it’s been awhile since we really did that, but yeah I was proud of you, and just… there was just no question about loyalty with the spell, not really, so there was no threat.  I love that Sam’s proud of you.”

 _Sam too_.  You look down at your lap and try not to think of him and how, really, you’re lying to him too.

Instead, you describe the fear and pain of Trisna invading you, and he chews slowly, leaning an arm on the table while he listens to how she aimed for them through you.  You stare at the wine in your glass and explain how amazing it felt to have Dean there, battling with you, over you, and how terrified you were that he mightn’t come back.

“When I started hunting, it was so clear how I came so close to death every time.  Sometimes you could add up all the inches, like a score. There’s so much luck in surviving…  But with you there, I needed more than luck…” You lose your words for a moment, dazed by the feeling.  “She couldn’t be worth you, you know? I kept thinking how nothing is worth giving up you.  But then I could feel the same feeling in your mind.” You look at him.  “I’ve been carrying that since I met you.”

“That’s it.” He says it hard, grim with certitude. “That’s it exactly.  Nothing is worth giving up you.”

It makes your heart thump, your chest swelling for it, trying to get closer to the devotion that kept you this past week, and it tempts you to think of what you could have again, to get some confidence about his feelings for you.

Cool guilt flashes across your back and since Dean has no awareness of the feeling you can say whatever you like. “Just so you know, I understand when you say that, that you mean ‘nothing but Sam’.  And I’m perfectly fine with that.”

His expression lets go of the heat, slips into something thoughtful, as though he might correct you.

“He’s your brother, Dean, your responsibility.  That’s different,” you assure him firmly.  “I get it.”

Slowly, with a deep breath and a lick of the lips, Dean turns toward you more and tells you a solemn truth.  “Sometime after you joined us - I dunno, we met some asshole during a hunt, someone who threatened you -” You nod, listening.  “- I told Sam how with three, you know, we give them leverage.  Someone will ask us to choose between the other two.  He was so quick, real quick, Y/N -” You stare at a dark corner, and if you let your vision blur out the light, it’s like he’s inside your head again. “- just _Oh we choose her, then go get the other._  Just like that.  He’d give himself up for you and expect me to come save him, and vice versa.”

Dean tilts a nod, and looks at you with a conviction that says he agreed, then and there.  

 _Us_ , you half think, _**we’d** go save him,_ but you can’t even wrap your mind around it, what it would take to give up your brother.  You don’t doubt him for a heartbeat.

“I would choose Sam,” you tell him.  Your chin buckles for a moment, but it’s tamed and only the salty ache of truth remains.  “I’d- I’d protect Sam, and come get you.  I don’t think you’d forgive me otherwise.”  But you can’t hold it, shaking your head and coughing away the grief at the thought of letting Dean go.  “Sorry, I-  The um, when the spell ended today, it was kinda rough for me, too. It’s still a bit,” you wave at your head a little and smile it away, “a bit fresh.”

“What do you mean rough? Is that why you called me?”

“When? This afternoon?”

Dean waits for an answer.  

Crap, you haven’t prepared a reason for that.  “Yeah, I- I figured since I left you, you’d think I didn’t want you to contact me and then I thought maybe, because I was- I got upset, and I worried that you _wanted_ me to call you, but obviously not because you didn’t answer so-”

“No I left my phone behind but-”

“What do you mean left it behind?” You peer at him.  “I told you to stay in your room.”

“I tried,” he tells you.  He’s not sorry, because shit happens, but you’re not pleased at all, glaring at his indifferent explanation.  “I couldn’t.  I went out.”  And his evasiveness doesn’t help.  

“What ‘out’? Where?”

He starts “I-” but lets the word go, gesturing at the table with his hand, ready to shrug because he doesn’t know what to tell you about things that are gone and done.  “I- went- out! I chased you down the road.”

“You _chased_ my _car_?”

“No, you were long gone!  I just needed to- follow you.  I ran down the road.  I couldn’t _see_ you.”

If it were nothing, he’d describe it better.  If he didn’t feel some way about it, this wouldn’t be the conversation you’d have.  The images that came to you in those last moments surface again - did you think of him running? Outside? You aren’t sure, and you start to wonder if they were dreamings, or visions of what he actually went through.

You’re down to the last few bites and under Dean’s gaze you feel some sort of scrutiny.  It makes you defensive.  “I’m sorry.  Again.”  You hesitate, but decide to not refill your glass.  “I didn’t think it would be like that.  I’m sorry I left you alone for that.”

You can’t do it any more.  You’re tired of duplicity, especially now it’s so selfish.  You take your plate and busy yourself with cleaning up in the kitchen, using the distance to calm yourself and reconsider your plan, feeling just minutes away from everything changing forever.

You don’t notice Dean finish his food and follow you, and you don’t know that he thinks you’re being eaten by more guilt.  He thinks all you need is to put the spell behind you, and look forward, hopefully toward something with him.

As you move from sink to bench, he catches your wrist, guiding you towards him and moving himself close.  It’s a rush, him coming so near, and you don’t know what to look at.

“Hey,” he’s quiet.  “It’s finished.  I’m here.  It’s later.”

You let him pull you into his space, feel his breath mingle with yours against the dry warmth of the room.  Parts of you both keep moving, little searches for the other to answer back - your feet shuffling forwards, his chin jutting a little, you looking around him as he turns the last inches to face you fully.  His thumb brushes on your forearm. He can’t keep the corners of his mouth from turning up and you can’t keep yourself from watching it.  He smiles and leans and slides his nose by yours to kiss you.

You reach up for him, warm and smelling perfect.  Beer-stained lips, full and reaching, and something like familiar.  You let your senses take in what they can, but all you can hear is the gap.

It’s so quiet.  The clock ticks, the light hums and the fire folds air.  Something scampers in the undergrowth outside. You listen to his skin move against yours and his breath flow through his throat when it ends.  He’s all there, somewhere, thinking thoughts about what’s happening, way down deep in his mind where you shouldn’t go.

“That was nice,” you say, in some sort of effort to relay your feelings.

“Mmm.  Again?”

“Yes.”

You reach for each other, fingers bumping into arms, fabric-full fists pulling clothes tight, and your lips are pressed together with more than just weight, warm sighs pushing over your cheeks and chins, only easing off enough so that your lips can actually move and taste each other, opening to feel something, and then it’s kissing.  Proper, this-is-what-I-came-for, kissing.

Dean tilts it, taking your head in both hands and threading his fingers into your hair.  His tongue slides up yours, generous and keen, and the heat of his palms on your jaw and neck is gorgeous, makes you step close, slip an arm around his waist, and tug on the neckline of his t-shirt with the other hand just like you did after the bar.  He smiles and hums, and you sigh back, feeling him pull you against him so he can kiss you as much as he wants.  Bellies and thighs start sharing their warmth.

You hug him, and steel your nerves, capturing in your mind the perfect feeling of Dean wanting you like this, choosing you without persuasion, and happy with you, in a quiet, lovely space, far away from all the crap.  With a shaky breath, you reach around to pull on his neck one last time, pushing your lips into his with every bit of heart you have, before you let the kiss ease off and slow to a pause. His full lips simply hold on to yours, wet and warm, because he wants to kiss you, and you want him to.  You want him so much.

_There’s something I have to tell you._

“What’s that?” he says, and instantly he sucks a short glaring gasp, because he heard you, heard you just fine, inside his head.  “Shit.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in a while, you’re terrified to hear what Dean thinks.

“I can’t hear you,” you start, drawing your hands away.  “Just so you know.  And I don’t know if I could.  I just-  I just knew I could do that.”

Dean looks you all over, pulls back half a step to look at your clear chest, and replays the facts since you beat Trisna.  Cas healed you in private.  Your dream overwhelmed him while he was awake.  You were hesitant to be around him at the end of the spell.  Slowly he looks at you with understanding.  “You knew,” he says.  “You knew, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t sure.  At the time.  I felt different, but I wasn’t sure if it would last beyond the spell.”  His arms now hang by his sides and you don’t know that to do with yours.  “And I thought,” you add hesitantly, “that if I wanted something enough, I might accidentally use her magic to make it happen.  That’s why I left.”

“Could Cas tell?”

You nod.  “I knew he would.”

Dean straightens, like the start of a nod.  His concern hasn’t changed.  “Can you… what’s it like?”

“You mean, is it like her?” He half-nods a shrug about his open question. “It doesn’t have… characteristics,” you begin, running your mind over it.  “It’s got no flavour.  It’s, it’s not evil or benevolent. It’s just like… water, or fire, it’s how you use it.”

“Good.”  He seems thoughtful, cautious.

So you keep sharing.  “This afternoon when I tried it out a bit, it was like I had to pick it up to use it. But talking to you then it was just… ready.”  Dean doesn’t respond to that, but you can tell he has the same feeling as you; he can see the gravity of that.  “Maybe we could move it to a vessel or something,” you suggest, “extract it from me?”

Dean’s focus turns inward as he considers it, but after a few seconds he’s thinking about something quite different.  “Why did you keep that from me? How, even?”

You fill your lungs with air, hoping it’ll transform into an answer on the way out…  “Did- did you wanna do dessert?” You reach over for the oven mitt, wishing now that you hadn’t prepared a second course.  “I wanna talk about it, I just… I made a pie,” you say feebly.

Dean nods, thinking too hard to really look at anything, and waits for you to dish up some pie and ice cream. When you sit down again he takes his place at the end of the table like before, right by your arm, which gives you heart.

He digs into his food and carefully thinks aloud.  “So it was because we separated her from the power - the ‘destroy or take’.  We stole her strength-”

“I think so.”

“Had to put it somewhere, didn’t we?” He chews, reflecting on the whole process.  He’s taking it much better than you imagined.

You start to breathe normally, taste your food better, and consider actually relaxing, until you remember his question.  “I didn’t want to tell you because… well, Trisna was a witch.  A proper Fuck-Everyone witch and I was afraid that… you’d…”  You put down your spoon.  “How am I not a witch now?”

Dean blinks at you sternly.

“I have a witch’s magic, in me, ready to go.  I can feel it.  It’s like,” you close your eyes to think of a description… “-notes on a violin I haven’t played yet.  Bigger than that.  A double-bass. But I can, Dean.  I can play.”

“But you’re not a witch,” he says plainly.  “You said it yourself, it doesn’t have an agenda.  It’s _powerful_ , but it’s like water.  Maybe,” he chews a bit, licks his lips, “maybe you’re more the sailor than the sea.”

Riding the power… “That’s very poetic of you,” you say quietly.

“Oh, I fuckin’ love a good metaphor,” he groans, and grins at your giggles and  relief.

But over your dessert, you reflect further.   _It’s neither_ , you think to yourself.  _I have the sea, and I could dissolve into it.  I could become an ocean._

“How much have you?  Played, I mean.”

You’re not yet sure how to measure it.  “A bit.  Nothing destructive.  Small stuff.  Like, _Chamber of Secrets_ small.”

“Like what?”

You put down your spoon again, clear your mouth, and push your chair away from the table.  Dean does the same, just in case.

As your chest bursts with trepidation, you sit, take a big breath, whisper the words you figured out earlier and _*sssn-p!*_

“Fuck!” Dean jumps in his chair a little, gapes at the sight before him.  Which is you, a gorgeous, rather large, Bengal cat, sitting where you were.

“Miaow.”

“Yeah.”  Dean’s frozen, but for his eyes looking you up and down.  

You raise a paw, tentatively suggesting that you might come over.  He doesn’t move or reply, so you hop onto his leg and he leans back, giving you enough of an angle you can walk up his torso.

With your front ankles neatly tucked together, paws just under his collar bone, you blink down at Dean and wait for his response.

Gently he reaches up and lays his hand on your head, sliding the weight down your back and oh, GOD, it’s divine.  You ripple up for the friction, closing your eyes and flicking your tail, and he strokes again, heavier, with a slight pinch over the shoulders.  You let yourself go, laying down against him, your face in his neck, and purr purr purr for more, rubbing your cheek under his ear when he obliges, dragging one hand after the other.

“This could get addictive,” he says and you purr back, thinking _It’s amazing._  He sucks a short breath at the feeling of your voice in his mind again, but that’s all it is; just your voice.  “Sure was,” he replies, and relaxes some, looking down at your silken shape laying upon him and slackening more with each stroke.

“Hey, you should finish your pie,” he tells you.  “We can do more pussy stuff later.”

You lose focus, bursting into your human form and straddling his lap before you’ve finished gasping at his words.  He’s grunts at the weight of you appearing on his legs.  

“Do you have any shame at all?!”

“I drove three hours!” he laughs, even though you don’t.  “So did you!”

“I drove three hours,” you slap his shoulder with the words, swatting away his cheekiness and gritting your words, “because that’s! How! Far! away I wanted to be if you weren’t okay with me becoming a real permanent witch!   _Dean_ -” He’s starting to see your grief now. “- I’ve been fucking shitting bricks over you saying, ‘Don’t come home! Don’t touch Sam! Lose my number!’  I’m _different!”_ His laughter has gone, and you’re trying not to puke up every worry you have.  “I can feel how heady it is! I can feel why Trisna was such an arrogant nut!” You look at your fingers curling toward you, imagining the power you could throw around.  “It’s- It’s-”

Dean takes your hands in his and tells you low and steady, “It’s something Sam and I will help you with.  Cas too.  We’ll keep you grounded. We will, Y/N.  You’re still you.”  He grasps your shoulders and adds, “That’s why I’m not worried that you have it.  Put this thing in a vessel and anyone can steal it, crack it, use it for God knows what.  You held fast to what was right this past week, every time. _You_ are good.”  With a warm palm on your jaw, he waits till you’re looking at him properly. “And we will look after you.  I will.  Don’t worry.”

There’s a rare moment of perspective, a clear one now that you’re spell-free, and it’s of the future and this moment in your history, the day the fabric of yourself was tainted and changed and Dean didn’t loosen his grip for a second, didn’t doubt his brother’s protection for a moment.

No matter where you end up, Sam and Dean will be family, always.  You’re special to them, irreplaceable, and when you fight to protect them you can see now the strike of _Mine_ that runs through it, right alongside _Theirs_.

“She could feel that,” you tell him.

“What that?”

“Family.”

“Damn straight.”

You nod, hoping it’ll all come true, and give yourself a few seconds of enjoying him between your legs before pulling yourself together and climbing off his lap to finish dinner.

“Woahwoahwoah-no! You,” he lets you up enough to turn you sideways and sits you back on his thighs, “you can stay right here.”

“I am not feeding you your dessert,” you declare, covering your nerves.

“Yes, you are, after I feed you yours.” Dean reaches over to your plate and loads up a fork of pie.  He asks, “So, did you check out the woods as a beautiful cat or as a beautiful woman?” and stuffs the food into your face.

“Oh ath a bootiful womang!” you answer, and keep talking without chewing.  “Ith tho preby! Ang yush!”  Dean giggles and squeezes you and you find that the sound ribbons its way through you, just like his voice did before.

He serves himself a generous forkful, licking the crumbs from his lips, and when your mouth is clear again you lean against him, wrap an arm around his shoulders and cup his jaw so you can put your forehead to his temple.  “Thank you.”  You kiss him, right at the end of his side-burn.  “Thanks for keeping me.”

His arm around your hip pulls tight and although he watches himself get more pie, and his tone is casual, he tilts against your nose and thinks about his words.  “There’s nowhere else you should be Y/N.  I’m not letting you go.”

You let him feed you again, take a kiss on the cheek, and return the favour in kind.  Before you know it, and well before you’d like, your plates are empty and Dean’s sighing into the chair again.  He tucks you up against himself and pushes his face into your neck, starts plucking slow kisses wherever his lips reach, and you thread your fingers into his hair to help him do it.

He hums lowly, noses the thrum of it into your hairline so he can butter you up with the tickle. The fire crackles still, a lovely soundtrack to his skin on yours, hands sliding over fabric, and you drag your fingertips down the slope of his neck.  “Think you could turn it back on?”  He murmurs it so quietly, knowing it’s taboo.

Instinctively, you answer “You don’t want me to do that,” because, contrary to every other thought you’ve had this evening, you’re still going to say the right thing at least.

“Why not?” He sighs heavily, brushes his nose back and forth.

“It’ll be different,” you guess, thinking aloud, “and before I get it right you’ll hear me complaining about the car’s A/C, and how I need to burp.  I’ll have heard you think _Her face isn’t symmetrical_ , and then you’ll be three days into _Can I live with a crooked woman?_ And I’ll be crying and, and no-”

“But we figured it out before,” he looks up at you, half amused, “- twice.  And no one’s perfectly symmetrical.”

“Not the point,” you insist.  “We should learn to go without it.”

Dean stares at you and your serious brow tries to hold it’s ground, but you’re not very convincing.

“It’s just, I thought, with all your talk of love this week, I thought you’d be happier to see me here but you were all,” he waves at the porch, “you know, outta reach,” and then at the kitchen, “all polite-”

“I was nervous about the witch magic.”

“Yeah, but it’s not just you.”  Dean’s gaze slips down to where his hand pulls on your thigh, keeping you on his lap.  “I’m not that good at saying how I feel.  I didn’t even have to think and before I got the words out, before I had the thought finished, you were on it-”

“Yeah we need practise in the old fashioned way, Dean. Sam was left out enough as it is-”

“Well, include him! It could be such an asset in the field-”

“No! Dean, come on-”

“Okay, a compromise.”  He sits up straight, which makes you pop up tall too.  “Just when we’ve got contact.  Like with the water.  That’s talking distance, personal space.  Just, I wanna try it,” he says firmly.  “You’ll be able to turn it off, no problem.  You’re in charge.”

“Yeah, I don’t even know _how_ , Dean,” you remind him.  “It’s been a _day_.”

His feelings aren’t that damn mysterious now, not when he scowls at the table and picks at the seam of your jeans with his thumb.  

You drag yourself out of his arms, flashing a sorry smile when he pulls on you, and start clearing the table.  The dishes can be rinsed and left for tomorrow, you decide, and at the bathroom door you say “I’m going to brush my teeth.”

He sits in the chair and looks over at you, rubbing his thumb over the neighbouring knuckles, and nods, distracted by his thoughts.

In the bathroom mirror, you look at your ‘casual’ hair, the ‘what this old thing’ shirt, and the barest layer of mascara. It’s a carefully prepared view, so it pretty ironic that what’s inside is what he wants, and much more so than you expected.

You automatically set to brushing your teeth, getting a bit of a surprise when the water pressure is so forceful.  With so many months of shared routines, it’s not particularly special when Dean joins you, and neither of you make a thing out of it.  You lean against the sink, drawing in the puddle you’ve made, and wonder if you’ll be taking the couch tonight.

Dean leans too, starting to scrub and, also as per your routine, you steal a quick glance at his forearm and hand working the brush against his teeth.  The tendons stand out, making the skin ripple, and it always leads your brain to their strength, what they could hold, or hold down.  You gaze at nothing and let your mind wander through the images you so often keep about him, transferring them to the cabin now, and think of the telepathy, particularly the dream.  

You dreamt it, but Dean saw it, and you wonder what it would be like to see too.  You wouldn’t, of course, but you can _wonder_ , sheesh.  

So you do… about touch, the feeling of what’s felt outside, on skin… different kinds of skin… and the sounds that could go with it, and how he might sound inside when he feels…

Just 6 hours.  Not even.  Maybe.  If you did.  Just so you could show each other what’s nice…  To feel what it’s like for him too, it’s tempting for so many reasons, and you imagine for a moment, his eyes rolling back, how you’d end up looking at just his chin from that angle, your focus on opening your throat for him, and those forearms bulking as he tightens his grip on your wrist.  And maybe that heaviness between your legs again, maybe wet and warm…

Momentarily, you slip out of your daze and notice that Dean’s scrubbing harder than usual, faster certainly, frowning as though someone’s going to steal his brush.

You finish up, spitting and rinsing, and go to leave, but Dean steps sideways, holds up a finger while he scrubs at the froth.

He’s really being quite rough with himself.  “Do you not like your head or something?”

“Hnng,” Dean says, in no particular way.  So you wait.  Maybe he has something to say that can’t wait for bedtime.

Othersiiiide… insiiiiide… You slowly nod as he goes through the motions in double-time, and he holds his finger straighter. “Wuh hick,” he says.  

“Uh-huh.” You pop your eyebrows, and dimple your cheeks patiently, sighing as he spits and rinses and spits and rinses, rushing through every step.

He spins around to the towel, whips it across his face, turns back and rounds in on you, taking your head to his, kissing you hard and pressing, and gathering you up in his arms.  The motion of it sweeps you toward the wall and he’s lifted you up so he can stand straight and press you against the wood.

He lets your lips go, smearing words into your cheek as you slide down the wall a little.  “Turn it back on so you can hear me.”

“What?” Where are your hands?  Feet? Are you standing? “I can’t-”

“Yes you can,” he insists, all of him shifting around you, large and warm.  “Listen.”  He kisses you again, his palm against your jaw to hold you so firmly.  He leans back, stands you back on the floor and asks “What did I think?”

“I- I didn’t get anything.”  All you can see are eyelashes and cheek, his hands tightening on your shoulders.

“Ask me a question.  Demand an answer.  With your mind.”  Again, he kisses, presses his tongue to yours and waits.

_Did… Tell- Tell me why you’re rushing._

“Mm,” he hums, letting you know he heard that, and then his voice is there - _there!_ \- low and watery, but there. _Saw… I saw… puddle…_

You sigh for it, pushing back to have more of that timbre inside you, and your mouth and mind open up, thirsty and keen for whatever of him will come.  It makes Dean frown and breathe hard.  Then his hands let you go, coming back with softness and relief, and he seems to try less and give more, hugging you to him, brushing your hair down as he kisses you and simply thinks of his answer.

It’s of you, leaning your fingers in the water by the sink, the same puddle he touches in his memory, and then there’re the images between the ones you thought, him on his back and you between his legs, his fingers wrapping around your wrist as you start, and then he shows you the spot you’re looking for with your tongue, and how it feels when you find it.  

You hum and lean, wanting more, and he gasps a little as you dive into the feeling, down into his body and perspective, voracious for the full picture.

“Maybe-” Dean pulls his face from yours, panting and slack-lipped at the strength of your curiosity.  “Maybe we should pick this up in another room.”

“Sorry, was that too intrusive?”

“No.”  He swallows and absently pats your shoulder. “It was better than um… I mean, I didn’t…”

You find his hand and squeeze it.  “It’s what you wished for, right?”

“Sure was.”  He’s still a little dazed, and seeing as he’s closer to the door, you have to wait for him to figure out turning around and leaving the room.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, you’re in this cabin… and you have this… ability.

Following Dean, you turn off the kitchen and dining room lights, all while watching his shoulders tilt side-to-side, wishing you could install a backdoor to his brain and just hop in and see what he wants.  

He sorts some things from his dufflebag, and you throw a few logs on the fire, rubbing your hands together as you come back, giving him a little distance.  He stands beside the bed and wipes a hand down his face, flicking on a bedside lamp as an afterthought before turning around to face you.

“Yeah, so, holy crap.”

You could ask so much, about how he is, his worries or ideas.  Instead you reach over, take his hand and focus on sending it his way, hoping that he’ll find whichever question he prefers amongst it all.

Dean swallows, listening to what you guess, with this dry contact, could only be a mumble at best. “Yeah, it’s just strong.  Real strong.”

Vaguely there’s a hum, or cloud, of what he means coming from him, but it’s a faraway crowd of chatter.  Your confused expression has him saying more.  “The spell was like being in the water with you.  This is like… like you’re breathing in what I breathe out.”

“That sounds smothering.”  It sounds awful.

“W- uh, yeah, kinda.”

You release his hand, thinking of his description and how you made it happen, how physical and demanding it was.  Back on the kitchen bench is your notebook, and you open it to this afternoon’s jottings before sitting on the bed.  Dean sits beside you, watching you write the words as you think them out.

“I think I’m just using brute force,” you mutter, “which is gross.  Maybe something more organised will be more comfortable.”

You cross out the words you don’t like, add a line and change it, and lose your place a second when Dean rubs his hand up and down your back, tucking himself half behind you as you work.  

“What about this?” You show him the text and point your pen at the part that means ‘for as long as each allows’.

“Looks good.  Let’s try it.”  He stands up and waits for you.

Rising slowly, you grumble “You could at least pretend to be cautious.”

“I ran about a mile today Y/N,” he says, and works his jaw at the confession, “because I thought you were leaving.  And I know, I know it was the spell, but that feeling? That distance?  It made me feel sick, and I’ve felt it before.  No more half measures.”

“I’m so sorry-”

“It’s okay, I’m fine-”

“I really didn’t-”

“Just say the spell, Y/N.”

You step up to him, kiss him lightly and let your whispered words warm his mouth and permeate his person, let yourself pull on him with your hands and lips and feel the magic flow through you like warm milk…

_-sorry, I truly thought it’d be so undetectable. I was just so scared of-_

_Y/N!_ Dean pulls away and starts to laugh at you still apologising.  “It’s okay!”

“I was a mess too, just so you know.”

“Okay,” he smiles and smooths down your hair, stepping closer and looking at you.  “I’m not mad.”

The scale of what’s close, what’s closest, has changed again, so the world seems a little bigger suddenly, and a little less relevant.  

 _Hey_ , he thinks, calm and warm.

You suck in a breath.  It’s really him.   _Hey_.  You smile, and it grows. You’re staring anyway. _It’s better_. You have to look at his lips now, and not into his eyes as your mind listens for him, to keep yourself from staring.

 _Yeah_.  He smiles too.

_You’re just you._

_I am.  Just me.  We got our own private room here huh?_

_Yeah.  Okay… Hang on._  You lean back and wait for him to draw his hands away, just to take a breath and give yourself a moment.

You look down at your hands and his, waiting for you, and try to manage the thrill of being able to hear him again.  You can’t even feel where in your mind he’s heard, just like when the spell was at it’s best; it’s as though his lips aren’t moving, or it’s his voice coming from your body.

More than that though, his thoughts have a clarity that wasn’t there before.  While there’s an echo of something, maybe his subconscious or second thoughts, it doesn’t reverberate as much, doesn’t mumble, and, best of all, what you can feel has a sharpness and freedom that’s all him and just him.   _This_ is your Dean, without deference, distinct and good, and you could fly away with the pride.

So you just want a minute now because he’s _here_.  And he can turn it off if he wants, but he doesn’t want that at all.  He’s come.  He’s jumped for you, driven to you, forgiven you; he’s persisted.  So however it goes, it starts now.  Just him and you, and all.

Tentatively, you step forward and put your hands on his chest.  You watch them spread, slide out and down his arms, and wait to see what he thinks about that.  It’s not like you have articulate thoughts about that either, but your hands are kind of happy, some part of your brain that responds to size and shape is happy, and Dean’s eyebrows go up with an amused little smirk.

_Shut up.  I’m into guys._

His smile breaks through and he chuckles, spreading his fingers over your waist.  He squeezes with it, pulls you close again, and you detect the satisfaction he gets from it, the having.  It’s like a murmur and you answer by pushing yourself against him, feeling the tone drop a note or two.

Then, a second before he leans, you hear it, the impetus to kiss that comes from inside him.  And more than that; you can feel how the back of his tongue aches to get more, how shallow it is when he licks inside your mouth.  You hear the decision to cup your jaw, and hold your head, a kind of _Better do that,_ because he figures that tilting up for a guy is hard on your neck after a while.

You smile against his lips and he mumbles “Plan on kissing you for a while.”

A flood of endorphins flutters through your brain at the idea of him wanting to kiss you, wanting something as simple and attentive and romantic as kissing with you, and there’s a loop from him, feedback that says he’s aware of it somehow.   _This is why they call it swept,_ you think, mainly to yourself, but Dean takes hold of your ribs and the back of your head and leans over, taking your weight, and kisses you so thoroughly he hears your brain gasp.

_That’s swept._

He lets your lips go, watches you struggle to open your eyes, fascinated and proud, blinking long as your swoon affects him too. _Damn_.

“I wish I could do that to you.”

This time he smiles so that the apples of his cheeks shine, all dimples and crinkles, and he slowly pulls you back upright.

When your feet are firmly on the carpet, you ask, “So, you ready for this?” You’re prepared to take it all in, you think, even if you’re shy about revealing your thoughts about him.  “I mean, I had the dream but you remember what it was like, not me.  You ready to do it again?”

Dean pulls in a big breath and, after a second’s sensible thought, sighs and nods with big, earnest eyes.   _You have to see this._

It makes you laugh, his very serious enthusiasm, and he laughs aloud too. “You have to.  It’s amazing.”

“O-hokay, I’ll try to cope.”

Dean leans down and kisses you through your smile, around his, holding and humming, and you give in to it happily, forgetting to be guarded, and think of all the things you longed for.  His full lips on yours, the length of neck under your palm, his strength around you.  You hear too, his mild surprise at getting your opinion on that, but it makes sense, he guesses, so doesn’t comment on it, just goes back to the kissing, then kissing along your cheek, and-

_-oh man, that._

_What?_ You caught it.

_Eyelashes.  So long on your skin.  You’re beautiful, but parts of you are so pretty.  Why is the corner of your jaw so nice?_

You don’t mean to tease, but you tilt, encouraging, feeling the warm, shy joy that comes from words like beautiful.

Dean’s happy to take it, pushes his lips and nose up under there and listens to you pay more attention to the feeling than you’ve ever given it before, feels the pressure himself. Your fingers drift up the back of his head and you fall back a little while words like _vulnerable_ and _sensitive_ , _lifeblood_ and _trust_ flip through your mind. _Because I want you there_ , you think.

You nudge him off enough to get to him too, kissing your way from ear lobe to collarbone, taking satisfaction in the way he sighs at the niceness, and then the way he coils at the tickling pressure and you let the feeling guide you as you kiss back up, harder, tonguing up under his bone and tugging on his earlobe.

_Why? Why is that so hot?_

_‘Cause I want to eat you_ , you answer.  

Instantly, almost violently, there’s the image of lips around a cock, and it’s whipped away, replaced with the two of you side-by-side last night, presented for your benefit, sweet and respectfully affectionate.  You keep kissing, behind his ear, and let your teeth drag over the crest of where his neck curves.  Then Dean’s mind moves through the memory swiftly; the talking about the dream, the view of it from the front seat, the mirage of his head between his legs, and then the sweet pulling ache of pleasure, drawing up your belly, the pressure and tug of it, all passing in a second as Dean gets down to what your teeth really make him think about, and suddenly there’s an image that comes with heat, around your neck and ears, and saliva pools in your cheeks.  You recognise it as generic, but it’s about you, of glistening flesh, blushed, swollen, shining and graphic, and Dean leaning his mouth against it.

“Oh fuck, sorry,” he pulls away, breath pushing in and out of him.  “I um, I don’t mean-”

“It’s okay.”  You wrap an arm around him, pulling him back. “It’s fine.  That’s all fine.”

“I didn’t want you to think, with the oral, we don’t have to, you know, anything.”

“I know,” you smile.   _You think I don’t want you to think those things?_  You lean up and kiss him, plucking on his lips with yours.  “I’m gonna be really honest here because I don’t think I can lie-” _You don’t think I’ve imagined your lips there? Or my lips on you?_

Dean twitches then, his brow giving away that he’s getting what you’re thinking of, which, unfortunately for him, is your version of that particular dream: the weight of a cock on your tongue.  He feels it too, the stretch in your lips, and he sucks in a breath, sighing “Really is uh…” He swallows hard to feel his own tongue do it’s own thing. “You feelin’ stuff too?”

“Yeah,” you admit.  “I can feel myself, how I feel on you.”

“Mmm.”  Dean looks over your head at the wall while his palms drag up and down your arms and his groin gets heavy and tight.  “We’re gonna have to choose,” he says, clearing his throat like you’re talking road directions.  “It doesn’t matter what we do, there’s no way I’m doing… two things tonight. With the- the oral- Not you _and_ me. At the same time.”

“Then let’s skip those and do the compromise.”

Dean squints an eye at the wall again. “No, a 69’d just end up an 88.” He’s thinking too hard about it. “Or an 8 even.  I’ll pass out or somethin’.”

“No, not that. The _other_ compromise.”

“Y- wait. D-  Do you mean _sex_?”

“Yeah.”  Your brain breathes in and holds it.

“That seems like a lot.”  Dean glares over your shoulder some more and you’re tempted to look and see what’s so interesting.  “I can think easier if I don’t look at you.”

“Oh.”

“Shouldn’t we, maybe, wait till we’re more practiced?” He waves his hand between you, tilting down as he talks.  “I mean, that’s a _lot_.”

Are you still afraid of rejection?  Are you asking for what you can get while you can? You’re not sure, but the indulgence and exploration, for you, that can wait.  You want him.  After seven of the longest, densest, most emotionally and mentally taxing days you’ve ever had, of watching someone you want want you back and not feeling like you can even side-eye the chance, a week of not thinking of elephants, okay _yeah_.  Okay? You fucking want to have the thing you’ve denied yourself for however damn long you can even remember, so obviously, oral sex would be lovely but-

“Okay-okay, I get you.”  Dean holds his hands up, cranks his jaw loose since he’d clenched it for you and your frustration, but he remembers to find contact again.   _Right.  Yes.  A long week for you too._

“Felt like a month.”

“Feels like…” Dean’s gaze goes sideways while he listens to your mind, and he twitches back to you in confusion.  “Eating rocks?” _Seriously?_

You shrug.  Sounds about right.   _Why not?_

“Seems kind of… stark.”  Dean tugs on your fingers, stepping close again while he wishes for nicer things, then decides to sit on the bed and guides you into his lap to straddle his thighs.  This way he can lean up to kiss you, and kiss around your neck.  It’s lovely to feel him hold you there and you keep rocking toward him, pushing your body so it’s flush against his.

He moves himself back, into the softness of the mattress, so things are more stable, then starts kissing around your chest while he sends thoughts your way.

It’s his point of view, of you.  This last week, how he compared everything against you - distances, direction, time - the coffee machine being twice as far away as you are, or when you would walk around the car, how long his showers took.  It’s almost unblinking, although not strained, just aware.   _Suspended_ , he thinks.

Then there’s you holding him up one night way back when, helping him to the car after a hunt-born injury, and still he thinks he shouldn’t hold your hip.  Then you laughing with him over breakfast, but he shouldn’t look at you as long as he wants. And the flashes keep coming; his empty palm by your back, the distance between your chairs, the room he gives you when he leans in, the jealousy he smothers over Sam, the _fuck it_ he felt when you really needed a hug and he held you so tight…

Then there’s a snippet of a night from months ago.  Some guy you’d picked up at a bar, and you getting your jacket as you decided to leave with him.  Dean saw him look at a friend and shrug as though you were good enough, and the heat of Dean’s anger blushes up your chest and neck, making you breathe fast once or twice. _Asshole didn’t know his luck._

He grinds his teeth and tastes dry deprivation, acrid and old, and he nudges his forehead against the edge of your jaw.  “Actually, yeah.  Eating rocks.”

He looks up at you, lit much like any other motel night you’ve shared, but never this close, not this soft.

“He was extremely forgettable, if that helps,” you share. “I’ll try not to think of it though because, you know, our brains.”

“Thank you.  So, just - and this is only just in case you feel like showin’ off or somethin’,” he assures you, “- can you magic away our clothes, or are we going manual?” _Just in case._

You shuffle back, slap your forearms together in front of his face, nod your head with a loud “Boink!”  Then wait a few seconds, for anything… “I’m sorry Major Nelson! I guess you’ll have to use your teeth!”

Dean doesn’t laugh though; he thuds his head to your chest and squeezes your hips.  “…I watched a lot of that as a teenager,” he groans.  “Far more than was healthy.”

“I love harem pants.”  Instantly, pink harem pants appear from his mind, on a body like yours.  “Wow, you’re suggestible.”

“You have no idea.” Dean peeks up at you, ready to laugh at himself, but very quickly he’s noticed the cheeky look in your eyes, reinforced by the lustful thoughts behind it, both of them giving about two seconds of warning.

You take his head, tilt it up and kiss him, lean over and kiss him like you’re pouring your wishes down his throat and, indeed, you flood him with a flip book of desires - his fingers at your waistband, knuckles over your panties, tongue-lapped nipples, arching backs, gasps by his ear, scratched skin, and heat.  You seal your lips on his, and suggest the shit out of him, and he grabs at things in turn - your waist, your shoulder, the bedspread - while his brain stumbles over each sigh you long for and the way you want to get it.

Back and forth your mind flits, until something surfaces more than the others - your lips, and his, trying to kiss, the aching sounds of panting, humid breaths warming your cheeks and you rocking against each other in a daze of pleasure.  Your tongue nudges heavily against your lower lip, thirsty, and Dean hums hard at the way it makes him ache right down the back of his throat.

He taps in then, and while your mind has gathered every moment you can think of, his ideas scroll through more like a narrative.  The lips move to your neck, twice the speed of reality, and he’s behind you, something tight and hard between you, his teeth by your hairline, his hand over yours, and him making you jut your chin at the push of his pelvis against you, the push of your ass into-  The feelings blend, in both of you, and you scoop your hips, back and forth, for both of you, muscles clenching from knees to gut, and Dean feels then the want of your body, not so much as an emptiness but a vacancy where there should be someone, him, hot and pressing and demanding, and he gasps away from the kiss, pushing his knuckles down into the bed to lift himself away from the frustration of a swelling pussy.

“Fuck.   _Fuck_.”  A cloud of heat inside and out has you tugging at his shirt.  You’ve no idea what your hands have been doing, and you guess you’ve been kissing all this time.  What’s next needs to come sooner.  “Condom,” he says.

“Pill.”

You watch Dean’s fingers hook into your jeans, flicking the button free, and he nuzzles you, occupies you with slack, tasting kisses as he gets enough space to turn his wrist toward you and dive his hand inside.

He wants to feel it, you can tell, the heat and closed space, the slippery softness.  He wants to hear you want what he can do, and as soon as his fingers get inside you, you’ve grabbed his forearm, and his shoulder, and gasped so high you’ve almost swallowed your tongue.  The thickness is such a tease and he hears you - _You! Your-! Inside me!_ \- and groans hard at your desire.  And then the sensation of it, it slips up fast and sweet inside him, just like in you, and his floor muscles flex, tripping on the cluster of words and sensations between you.  What strikes him though is a leaning _Yes_ inside you, not said but felt, to be in the palm of his hand and controlled.  It’s not quite submission, though you’re ready to give over, but it is intoxicating, the way you sink into it, how you want him to _do things_ to you, and that he can.

He knew his fingers were smaller than his dick, but he never knew how contradictory the effect would be.  There’s your panting anticipation, all memories of past pleasure, and when he curls his reach he breathes in for the way it’s delicious, so tempting and so fucking good, but it’s not as satisfying as he expected.

You jerk on his arm and push his palm against your mound, forcing more, ready to be strung out on something that’s not quite enough, but it doesn’t feel like foreplay to him, not at all, and quickly he’s abandoned the whole thing.  “No.  Nope. Fucking, can’t do that.”

“Ho, _shit_ -” you whine, his fingers dragging a shiny stripe up to your waist while he steadies himself.

“I’m sorry.” He feels it, more annoyance. “I can’t, I’m either gonna come too soon or eat a pillow out of frustration.”   _You want cock._


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s different. And it is _amazing,_ but it’s tricky, so you’re just going to take a little time and _focus._

You start to laugh, giggling against his lips.   _Oh my god, **do** I?!_

“Dammit, sorry.  I mean, I can be modest, in theory-” He’s so cute, apologising and smiling.

“No, you’re right!”

“It’s just, that’s what I’m picking up-”

“You’re right; I want cock.”

He kisses and laughs against you too, muted noises while he works on his own pants and tugs on your top.

_I want your cock._

_Damn. Yeah, you do.  Damndamndamndamn…_

You’re backing off the bed and he’s leaning so you can keep kissing while you get your pants off, but he cups your jaw, letting you go and looking down at himself.  He focuses on tugging socks and pulling off his shirts, not looking at you at all.  He must be taking a breather, you decide, but when you’re down to your panties and bra, he’s rubbing his palms on his thighs and glancing everywhere else, and then just at your face, shifting back so that the pillows are in reach.

“You okay?” you check.

“Hmm, yep. Sure am.”

“I’m nervous.”

He blinks at you, fixes his eyes on your face as you kneel on the bed and come close enough to touch, but don’t.  He watches you bite your lips together on a slow inhale because well, gee, what’s he gonna say back.   

He smiles quietly, half to himself, knowing you’ve only said this because you detect it in him too. “Me too,” he nods in thanks, then hooks his fingers around two of yours. _See? You got me._ You squeeze his fingers in reply and let him think.  

“I mean, there’s a lot going on,” he explains. “What if you don’t like what you hear?” _Another unplanned brain fart_ , his mind mutters.

You’re sitting on your feet, knees by his bare thighs, and look down at the two of you in your underwear.  “Well, I’m kinda scared you’ll think I’m a bit pathetic, for all the things I think about you but…”  From here on.  You and him and all.  “I’ll just have to be brave.”

Dean reflect on it, and when he comes back to the present his gaze has slipped to your shoulder.  The fire still burns orange in the dark, and the curves of you glow from it.  Then he looks at you, your belly and chest and your matching underwear.  You see him notice - bra-panties-bra he glances - and dimples at you being prepared.

You glance at his boxers and back at him.   _See you were going for comfort._ He doesn’t need to read your mind for that thought.  His fingers tug on yours, asking you to sit on his legs again.  For some reason, his hairy thighs under your butt makes all your skin turn on: you’re nearly naked together.  No matter what’s happened this past week, it’s definitely a step in your relationship.

His fingers slide up your arm and over your shoulder, down your back, each finger coasting the curves and angles.  He’s broad before you, soft and strong, and you can’t believe your fortune, to have him wanting you, someone you admire so much, all his honour and ability, there’s no one you hold in higher esteem-

And Dean can look at your face - could, easily - but you’re before him too, all that skin, those scars he saw happen, and although he’s sought you, wanted you from afar and even from within, you’re coming to him now, giving and allowing and wanting, and he craves the comfort of your heart, literally thirsts to have you ever closer-

And it’s with these feelings that your lips meet.  Desire and reverence, luck and hope, for long sweet moments you both feel all these things and hope the other doesn’t think you’re a fool… until Dean takes hold of your hip and squeezes, and _Beautiful_ murmurs low in your mind.  In that word, and all that comes with it, the sighing tone and neighbouring feelings of gratitude and fear and devotion, it makes you choke. A sob of awe and relief is smothered into a loud swallow, and you grab onto his arms.

He whispers hot against your ear: “Do you mean it?”

You pull in a shaky breath and clear your throat to keep back the tears.  “Mean what?”

He guides you with a gentle hand, keeping your face close so he can feel your cheek on his, drag his lips along your jaw.  “You really feel that way about me?”

“Yeah, Dean.” You give in and let him hear whatever he will.  “Always.”

He presses his mouth to the curve of your neck, crashes his lips against the muscle so he won’t break, and pulls you tight against him.  You curl an arm around his head, driving your palm down his back and do your best to keep your shit together.  It takes everything you have, every skill, to not think of the word love, and it’s only made possible because he doesn’t realise that’s what it is.

“Come on.”  You’re the first to speak again, your throat almost caved in on itself.  “We gotta get over ourselves if this is going to happen without us going catatonic.”

Dean huffs a laugh, sitting up and nodding to clear his mind.  He waits for you to seem ready again.  “All right.  Let’s do this.  We can do this.  We’ll just focus, right?  ‘Cause I think it’s gonna get pretty busy.”

“Right, yeah.  Just, take it easy.  Narrow it down.”  You nod, bite your lips, trying not to smile.  “For science.”

“Hm-hmm,” he dimples, too, and kisses you.  An image of you in a lab coat appears.

“Dean, focus.”

He chuckles, unable to keep from thinking of you in a doctor’s coat now.  Black rimmed glasses.  Red lipstick.  Hair just begging to be disheveled-

You start to giggle, thinking _Oh my god, stay on task._

Dean’s “Hey!  You brought it up!” doesn’t stop you.

“Sure did.”  You can’t move his image, but you do imagine him in a doctor’s coat too - _Oooh, nice_ , he thinks, feeling kinda chuffed as a professional - and you’ve got him pulling on some gloves, pouting thoughtfully and snapping the elastic.   _Let me take your temperature._  You imagine him saying it, possibly with an accent, eyebrows bouncing with every syllable.  Neither of you can keep it together, and you chuckle “Sorry, that got away on me.”

“Focus!” he growls playfully.  “We’ve gone to a lot of effort to see what’s it’s like to fuck ourselves, okay?  So _focus.”_

“Yes! Sorry!  Brain fucking. On it.”  You resettle yourself, happy and trying not to giggle.  “Focusing.”

_Hush.  Jesus._

Dean pushes his palms up and down your back, pulls them down the back of your shoulders all the way to the front of your thighs and looks at the skin between his hands.  You wait, and calm, listen to his breath and attention and soon enough you slip into sync.  At some point your selves are aligned enough that the space between each beat is quiet, and he looks up at you, able to see you properly while you’re both still.

He leans up and pecks at your lips, because that’s just lips on lips; the feeling from you is like the feeling he gets, so it’s some simple input.  He kisses again.  Focusing…

Slowly though, your mind starts noticing things again, quiet little worries about things, getting nervous about what can be seen and trying to not be nervous about what you think, or not think what you shouldn’t think, or at least keep it quiet, but he’s got the same things swirling around too, some more directed than others, and soon it’s just bees in a box.  
 _(Those rough fingers) -_  
Sorry -   
No, it’s lovely   
…(moisturiser)   
You’d use mois-? -   
No, but if -   
(Oh my gut, ugh)  
\- gut? -   
(Don’t suck, relax) -   
God **my** gut -   
(So big) -   
Big? -   
Cuddle into -   
Oh **bigger** (act bigger)   
(Big strong guy)  
(Be a big strong guy)  
“You don’t have to try!”

“Ugh.”   _This is hard._  “Why is it so cluttered again?”

“I dunno.”  You lean your forehead on his and try to hold still.  “I feel like I’m listening to myself too, checking myself. Is it too much focus?  Maybe I’m creating feedback.”

“Can you switch it? Just make it flow one way?”

“No-”

“It’s too noisy.”

“No, that’s you.  I can send you stuff, but you’re either listening or talking.”

“What?”

“We have to shut up in the head. Think like you’re talking.  Like before.”

Dean grumbles, “I can’t even remember,” and clears his throat, chooses silence for a moment, and listens, and it is quiet. Then he kisses you, testing again, and he smiles, squishing a thought so he can keep on listening to what it’s like for you to be kissed.  Your background thoughts aren’t too surprising, although they’re sweet and kinda cute to hear while you try to think of only what he’s doing - _yes… soft… hmmm…  
_

The practise starts making a difference.  Whereas before he just caught how you felt, now you’re showing him, sending it to him, so you’re both listening to the same sensation.  There’s the ghost of his lips, how he can feel where they are on him, which is a bit peculiar, but then his hands slide into your hair, around your neck and waist and electricity thrills across his belly and down his throat where your body responds to his touch.  He grins, _Amazing_.

“Shut up.”

_Nope.  Sorry.  Can’t._

He drags his hand back, tucking the heel of his palm into the dip of your hip and feels all your muscles tighten in his own torso, belly quivering and groin tightening.  “Wow.”

“Hmm.”

“You like this.”

_I like you._

Dean stops the kissing, not that it was very busy, and skims his lips over your cheek, down past your jaw and into the curve that’s almost neck and not really shoulder, and when he kisses you there again, a splash of effervescent sensation makes him curl sideways.  He shudders all over.

“You’re getting better at it,” he comments.

“Just gotta listen to one thing at a time, with your mind.”

He kisses along your shoulder and starts to do all the things he’s always thought he should do, all those nice things.  He slides his palm down the planes of your back and cups your ass, kneads his fingers in the fat and listens to your mind growl _Yes_.  With his eyelashes brushing your skin, looking at nothing but what’s in your mind, he moves his hands symmetrically, up your waist, making you lengthen and sigh, down your ribs and belly, feeling you lean for him and feel happy, and brings his hands back up to your breasts, cupping them and pushing their weight upwards.

 _Yes_ , you sigh again.  All these yeses, it’s so enticing.  He keeps doing it, massaging, dragging his thumbs over the tips, tickling them tight through the lace, every gasp and noise from your throat so heightened with the thrills in your mind, commentating what feels so nice on you and so on himself. He tries not to think it aloud, but he really is taken with the sensation of weight, your breasts from his chest, such a luxurious feeling.

At one point he goes too hard, or one too many times, and he feels a short pinch sting you. “Sorry.”  He’s quicker than you are at responding.  “Sorry-sorry.  Got carried away.”  He kisses your breast, nosing kindly, and you push your fingertips over his scalp.  It makes him breathe deep and his attention dumbs while he feels your hands drag nice sensations over his neck and shoulders.

You take the lead and as your hands move over him, and you kiss his brow, his ear, down his neck and under his chin, it’s quicker than what he did, and quicker in the loop between your minds.  You’re not listening to see how he feels; you’re predicting.   _Like this_ , you think, then do this nice thing - a lick, and nibble - and listen to him hum _Yeah, sure is_ , and make sounds that are all compliance as he leans back and lets you decide how nice it’s going to be.

He shifts himself down between your legs, just as you imagine he would, and you slide your knees long, laying upon him.

“Did I ask you to do that?”

“Probably.” He undoes your bra and slips the straps away, watches you lean up a moment so you can pull it free.

For a few seconds, while your lips are connected, you hold his head still and kiss him, and he puts his hands on your ribs, waiting for you. Slowly, by inches, you show him what’s new and special while you’re like this - his skin on the softer skin under your arms, your bust up against him, belly skin warm and long, hip bones, bony things, thighs that balance on each other and, as you get down there, ankles that hook around calves.

Dean smiles, sends his mind up and down the contact too and slides his palms down to take great, hearty handfuls of your ass to show you _This too, holy hell, this too_ , making you giggle all over.

He lets you go and rolls you both over, smothering his nerves with some mild throat clearing when you start pushing down his boxers.  He lifts himself to help, but you don’t look down.  Instead you watch him move above you, the lamp’s shadows reshaping his angles.

Dean pinches the side of your panties and watches his hand, then your hands too, pulling them down and follows your lead in not actually looking at what’s revealed.  But he does think of it, when he lays against you, and so you show him what it’s like to be under a bigger person who’s warm and smooth and heavy, and he smiles.  “S’nice,” he agrees.  “You feel safe.”

 _Yeah… I feel safest with you…_ You forget then to listen to his feelings or his mind, or maybe there’s nothing to hear, but his gaze is what echoes, wondrous and amazed at knowing, at being so sure, that he’s who you stand closest to, and that this is where everything else is furthest away.   _Kiss me._

Dean leans down, obliging.  It’s singular, the feedback and sharing looping around on what’s nice, what each of you likes - the deliberate press of lips, or a light lick, tongue-tips touching as someone tilts, and breath from one being felt on the other, the comfort and luxury of skin on skin from shoulder to shins - and after a while you’ve lost track of how long you’ve been doing this, who’s even asking for what, except that once or twice you rock up for it and Dean’s cock nudges against you, right in the middle, and both for you white out for the seconds that it does.

It’s been well played, so far, that you’ve not looked at, or spoken of, or touched what’s between anyone’s legs because who knows what’s going to pop out of your brain about something that explicit, but it’s there, throbbing, heavy and hot, the kind of interfering ache that can’t be ignored much longer.

“Okay,” you pant.  “Anytime you want, if you want to go mono, switch off the stereo, just do it.”

“Will it come back on?” Dean asks, quite breathless himself.

“I dunno.  Not sure.”

He nods.  “Okay.  So, I’m just gonna, I should check-” he says and reaches down between you.

You’re careful to listen and wait, rather than expect, and it’s only slightly surprising: he doesn’t slip his fingers between the lips, like most others have, or like he did before, just places them on your skin, all four together.  It’s so hard to keep still.  And he’s only there to see if you’re wet where you need to be, but there’s nothing, not enough to make him sure anyway.  He stares at the pillow, pushes aside an idea of what he could do if you need more, and slips his middle finger into the crease to check.

You’re wet.  Now that he’s there he can tell, you’re certainly wet enough, but he doesn’t draw his finger away.

It’s a mild tickle, just the tip of his finger at your entrance.  You’re holding still, every bone obedient, and waiting to see what he’ll do, but he seems stuck.  

Quietly you dare him to do more.   _Up_ , your mind whispers, and his eyes snap to yours.   _Up a little._

He gazes at you, the eye contact hardly a bother when you’re visualising things for him.  Your thoughts follow the pad of his finger, calling him higher and higher.  He goes all the way to the top of the crease, dips in enough to disappear his whole fingernail, and hesitates.

_It’ll be too much._

He’s afraid of how good it’ll feel and quickly he’s distracted, then troubled because you’ve become demanding, making it so visceral to him, and you’ve quietly taken hold of his hand to make his finger do what you like.

Round you circle, ignoring Dean’s “Son of a-!  Hohhh,” at how good it feels and you close your eyes to start things off with a not-so-slow run up on the loveliness of your clit being indirectly massaged.  Around and round you take him, for some time, until you’ve pull your hips back and Dean’s squirmed himself between your legs.

“Come on, Y/N.  Fuck.”  He starts to rut against your thigh and you smack your hand on his lower back to hold him still, because the ghostly pleasure of your thigh on his cock, plus his finger on you, that’s certainly too much at this point.  

He groans and drops his head to your shoulder, understanding, and lets you do what you want.   _Just don’t come, okay?_

_I’ll try._

Your chest starts to match the motions, as does his, and you watch his arm muscles bunch and give as you move him over yourself, gathering the pleasure until you’re almost kicking for more.  Then you change the motion, moving sideways over your clit, a heavy drag against the bone that makes Dean cry out like you, and he allows it, lets you take what you want, but only for about six goes or so before he’s whispering “Fuckfuckfuck!” yanked his hand away and grabbed his cock to keep from coming.

“Oh, fuck!” you whine, and mash your palm over the softness.  His constricting grip stifles you too, and you start rolling the pressure, threading your fingers between the folds to try and overwhelm the suppression.

“Shit, no!” Dean snatches at your wrist and pins it back with his other hand, dropping his hips between your thighs and digging up against you, threatening to begin, his grip on himself still making your legs swim in frustration.  His head is on yours, grinding, rolling, and he can hear you keening for it - _Yes yes yesyesyesthat please Dean come on._  Your hand claws the air, against his weight and the tantalising resistance, and he feels your legs spread and your hips dip down for him, feels the buzzing stretch in his own legs, from thighs to belly.

 _Yes please start, Please-_ Your thoughts don’t have a tone anymore.  They may as well be his.  He leans forward, digs his knees in, nudges enough to feel you slippery, and goes far enough to know he’s where he needs to be.  It’s like holding a warm caramel on your tongue - everything starts to melt.

“Okay” he croaks.  “You’re gonna feel what it’s like to fuck someone using a cock.”

You nod quickly with a slack, breathy smile. “Yeah. Any tips?”

“…Try not to let it boss you around,” he grins.

Before you can think more than _Ha!_ he’s asking “Are you really ready?”

“Yes.”

Dean huffs a laugh, because he can tell how completely disconnected your train of thought is to that answer.  You just want.  Your clit is still buzzing for more, and he can even feel your core clenching for whatever will come.  It makes him flex too, makes his ass and balls pull tight, and pushes him to begin.

“Come on, Dean.”  You lay a hand on the back of his head and kiss him once.  “Come on.  Fuck us.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you thought about it you’d be stunned. You’re about to have sex with Dean while telepathically connected. You got this.

“Okay… haa-AaahhH-HA!”

“Ah!  Sh-t!”

“Oh fuck!” Dean pants.  His shoulders creep up to his ears, everything else is frozen.  He’s clenched his knees together, tucking his ass at the crowded, glorious, gut-curling feeling of you being fucked by him.  His body curves into the corner of yours, deep as can be.  “Don’t move!”

_“Mm!”_

“Jus’…”  There’s a barrage of words from Dean, all of them sounding like he can’t breathe out, as though the floor’s too hot - _Uh! God! Tight! So fucking tight- and thick! Fuck that’s thick.  That doesn’t fit.  Fuck that’s a lotta somethin’.  Oh God, my gut.  My ass!  Why- that sting?_  “Whydoesthatstingfeelsogood?!  I can’t move!”

You’ve managed yourself well, holding still, letting the sensation of him sliding into you do it’s thing.  It’s not unfamiliar, in that you’ve had sex before, but there is something relieving, and immensely satisfying, that this is how good he feels.  

But that’s a background thought you can file for later: what’s really new is that you feel _fucking amazing_ to him. The tight, hot weight of his cock has been pulling on your groin for sometime, but when he slipped inside you it was as if the whole thing materialised from tip to root, right into molten butter.  And the _pressure_ , the slick sucking pressure of your body on him, it’s a sublime sensation you’ve never met.  

Your brain is consumed with the roar of blood and the image and feel of this thing that somehow fits between you as well as inside you.  Your hand was on the back of his head, but now it’s on his crown, the other on his ribs.  He chances some movement, spreading his knees and squeaking an inch out and in, and your fingers snatch his hair and skin as both of you gasp and groan at the friction.

“I can’t move,” he wheezes, unable to let his shoulders relax it seems.  “How the fuck- Jesus! Fuck!” _How do you do this?!_

You can’t answer him yet, because his moving has revealed some of the overlay inside.  You can’t really tell the difference between what Dean feels from you and what you actually feel, but you can detect how his gut tugs and lurches at every little move, and that his cock, spreading you apart, how that thickness feels in him and teases his prostate from within.  His balls are holding their breath.

“I can’t do this,” he gasps.

You’ve not yet let go of his hair.  “What do you mean?”

“I can’t move.  ‘S too much.  I’m gonna fucking explode.  Puke.  Pass out.  Help.”

You can tell.  It feels so good.  So goddamned fucking good.  There’s everything behind his dick, inside himself and so tingling-tight, lit up and ready, like a thrown ball at the top of its curve, fighting gravity.  You tilt yourself against him, get the low girth of his cock to push against your softness, let him see how it reminds you of candy that’s too large, and his ass tucks tighter still.  

“We’re rolling over,” you tell him.

“Ooooh god yeah okay.  Good luck.”  The action is tight and swift and gruff (he’s reset his own shoulder with less trepidation) and in a few short manoeuvres and he’s on his back, trying to relax.

Very carefully, you set your knees a few inches from his ribs, lay your hands high on his chest and kiss him with light, slow lips.  All’s quiet, and he holds your ribs with tentative hands, his mind apparently stalled, like the CD’s hit a scratch - _uh-uh-uh-uh-uh_.  You try to get in there to help.

_It’s nice yeah?_

_F-f-f-f-yeah.  Too good.  Still stuck._

_You don’t need to move, I can do it._

“Oh, Christ.”  His brow eases and his hands shift about, trying to find a place.  “How are you coping?”

_You’re not going to come just from relaxing._

“Yeah, feels like I might.”

“So what if you do?” You slide the tip of your nose over his, kiss his cheek, trying to unwind a bit too.  “We have all weekend.”

Breathing as carefully as he can, and trying not to glare, Dean opens his eyes and starts to think of other things.   _Dirt.  Aaaaaaaand socks.  And dust-_

“No, just- listen to me.  I think I’ve got this.”  You try to feel through it all and hold still while sort out the difference between easing off and letting go.

“Oh do you,” he’s not convinced.  “I can feel what you’re feeling, you know.  It’s the shit for you too.  You know.”

“Yeah, it is but-” You’re talking so quietly, up against the shell of his ear now, careful not to drag yourself over him, or clench, or wiggle.  “There’s more.  And I’m used to coordinating a few things for this.”   _You know, inside and outside and angles and things._  “Just… let me take you on a nice ride maybe.”

With your thumbs on his cheeks, you hold him still and kiss, inviting him to feel through you, rather than with you, and after a while he seems willing, or less suspicious at least. He takes a few deeper breaths and then his mind sort of… reclines, so you begin.

Strong fingers down his neck is how you start, slow, warm palms down his arms, stroking the tendons of his forearms, firmly again, it makes him breathe in and relax a little, and when you find his hands and rub your knuckles into the palms, he gives a little more, surrendering the weight of his arms when you lift them up and lay them on the pillow over his head.  

You take your time running your hands down his arms again, since there’s no harm in enjoying the view, you figure.  You ignore his little smirk at that.  With your hands on his chest you sit up and pause a moment, in case he wants to look.  He does and, by your prompt or his desire, and you think of him reaching up to feel the curves of you, watching him oblige, leaning into it too.

He cups and gathers your breasts, taking their weight, showing you how lucky he feels to see his hands there, and you show him how lovely it feels to you.  Then you sit tall, tilt your hips, and he gasps as it all lights up again.

You’re assertive with this now.  You can feel how he’s settled into the warmth and how much he wants friction - you want it too - and you’re just about comfortable with the pull and pressure he’s getting from his cock.  You can tell he wants to just go, straight to the end, a feeling fed by a salivating itch, but you need the journey.

“Just relax,” you say, and try to do the same yourself to lead him - light fingers, soft in the thighs, slow and rolling inside.  You feed it to him, watch him look at you with heavy eyes, watch his lips fall slack. _I looked after you before didn’t I?_

_Yeah, you did, Y/N.  You were so good._

_Just follow me.  Follow me._ You start to rock and focus on the heat shifting up and down his cock, the pressure a little less than before.  Slowly, you lean up and sit down, feel how bare it is when he’s outside you for those moments and, as you begin to move more steadily, you mentally match the friction along your walls to the plunge and tug on him, as though they’re the same thing.  The pressure is just right for you and when you start to notice the drag electrifying, Dean’s fingers slip up your thighs and dig into your waist.  You keep going and take his hands, loosening his grip and leading them back to the pillow, above his head like before.   _Follow me._

Dean closes his eyes and nods, trying to breathe into the mattress again.

You move a little quicker, almost bouncing, but not using any angles just yet.  You’re finding that the more you do the easier it is to show him what you want him to feel, and after a while it’s like you’re moving you both.  You walk your hands up his body, gently leaning on his chest and you gasp at the subtle change, watching him bite his lip at the way his cock now brushes your g-spot.

Dean squirms his legs up and down, his belly muscles coiling and pulling the tendons.  Damp chest, cool spine, and sticky palms: the sweat is starting to show, and it blends with the moisture between you, everything getting a little noisier.  

At this angle and pace, you keep things steady and take a little sideways peek, listening to him inside, because he’s started chanting something to help keep control and you’re far too curious to skip it.

_How the fucking how the fuck am I lasting? She got some sort of biokinesis shit holding it off or somethin’- shit shit fuck oh god it’s like every nerve every damn nerve is under submission and she hasn’t even really got going. This is why we shoulda- I should’ve had her, made her come already I’m dying here I’m oh god oh god it’s good-_

_Hey-_

Dean looks at you again, rocking over him, and twitches his arms as if to move them.

_Try listening to how it feels for me.  Focus on that._

“Oh.”   _Follow you, you mean._  One cheek smiles.

“Yes.”   _You goose._

You try to ignore his smile - that gorgeous, homeward smile - and close your eyes to concentrate, and once he tunes in it’s as though Dean’s watching with you, unblinking, his ear by yours, his breath coming out of your lungs.

Admittedly, your core has started to protest at so much stimulation.  It’s been better than you can recall, the pressure even and relentlessly sweet.  It’s so easy to get faster and you’re realising just how much of your sweat has been from holding back.  So you give into it, lean into it and fuck you both, the sensation of submersion and fulfilment looping around and when you can show Dean that, how it’s almost the same thing, a warm thrumming, like live wires too close, starts within him.  It’s a loud, deep hum, and this time he bears down on it.

A few more degrees and that sweet spot inside you is ringing like a bell.  This is what you’ve wanted to show him and you draw him into your mind even more.  You feel him moan for how good it is and his body starts to sing, right back to his spine, hot and tight.  You let him take hold of your ribs.  The neediness begins to demand.

Now you reach down and start to circle your clit, the wetness surprising and slippery.  Suddenly Dean understands what you mean about the distance.  He grunts, curls up a little and drops down, losing his place but comes right back to you, matching your pace. It’s as though you’ve shifted into fifth and you’ve got the full stretch of the engine just waiting; he didn’t realise how much more was coming.

And it is a lot.  Between his prostate and your clitoris there’s a hell of a lot going on and you can feel the rush of blood numbing your skin, but it’s also so fucking _fucking_ sweet that you’re about to give it all up and just go for anarchy.  Your rhythm is tripping, and you can’t quite get enough from yourself, so you rub, up and down, making Dean cry out, his fingertips digging into your fat, at each random moment that your clit and your g-spot are struck together.  A few times in a row, it’s golden, bliss, and you gasp through each beat and scratch his chest.

Dean clenches his jaw, following, following - “Oh, fuck, _fuck!”_ \- until he breaks rank.  He plants his feet and slams you down, giving a depth and force you can’t create with just your weight and your brain screams _YES! THAT! DEAN!_ through the five or six strokes that he gives you, each one deafeningly perfect and you’re coming, flashing a brilliance from under your touch that wrenches on your core, tremulous, and wonderful.

“OH-GAH!”  Dean curls up, his fingers digging into your hips at the ecstasy you feel and his whole pelvis alights with it, throwing an orgasm out of him that shakes him enough to rock you, his balls spasming, and your legs clench at the feeling, and his cock near vibrating on what he gives.  His voice stumbles, your hips ache between his palms, and his inner thighs and core tremble just like yours.

You hold onto each other until your floor muscles have collapsed in surrender, Dean’s brain quietly sighing _Yes yes yyyyyes yes…  Y/N? …yes._

Your forehead is on his chest.  That’s what you notice next.  That and the cool air on your back, and the way your tongue aches from the panting.  Dean’s useless under you, and you’re slightly unconscious…

“Y’so noisy,” he puffs.

“…In my head?”

“No… just… noisy.”

“‘Kay.”

“Like it.”

“Good.”

You peel yourself off him, collapse onto your side and open your eyes enough to watch Dean’s bare chest heave up and down.  Everything is damp.

“Covers,” he mutters.  “C’mon.  Under the covers.”

You get the impression this is the last thing he wants to get done tonight so you do your best to get under the duvet and sheet, finding some bedside tissues for a few good-enough wipes.  Dean’s arms find you, thick and hot, and his clammy skin catches on yours.  He nuzzles himself in between the pillow and your neck and you tangle your limbs together.

“Think… think I’m gonna have my brain alone for a while.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” you pant.  Both of you have become so heavy.  Feels like the mattress can’t even hold you up properly.  “I think sleep time should be… independent.”

The fire’s barely making any noise at all now, and although there’s a few skittering sounds in the undergrowth outside, there’s only Dean’s breath warming your neck, and your heart just working on getting the next beat done.

He hugs you to him, squirms into it and pulls your thigh to his waist as though he can’t get close enough.  It’s lovely to just feel him against you, the simple and decadent feeling of his skin, and so much of it, on yours.

“I still wanna curl up on your lap,” he murmurs.  “Fit inside your arms.”

“I loved that.” You kiss him wherever your lips can reach and hug his head with gratitude.  “My gorgeous boy.”

Dean squeezes you back and tilts his head back to kiss you, reaching his lips for fat pecks.  “Sleep.” He kisses again.  “Holy crap.  Sleep so we can think straight tomorrow.”

…

_BZZ-BZZ!  BZZ-BZZ!_

When in the hell did going to sleep sober have you feeling this hungover in the morning.

_BZZ-BZZ!  BZZ-BZZ!_

The screen says “Coven Claire”.  

_BZZ-BZZ!  BZZ-BZZ!_

Dammit.  Could be an unscheduled power outage or something.

“Hnng?”

“Y/N?! Are you there!  How is it? You find everything?”

“N-hng.”

“Did Dean go with you?”

“N-hng.”

“YES!  And how’s that going?”

You crane your neck enough to get your face out of the pillow so your jaw can work.  “Claire.”

“Are you hungover?”

“Claire.”

“You’re exhausted from all the fucking aren’t you.”

“ _Claire_.  Is this urgent?”

“No, I just wanted to check you’re okay, Hun,” she says, not at all offended. “But I can call back later.”

“How ‘bout I call you.”

“Even better.  Is it good though?”

“It’s a lovely cabin-”

“Oh as if I’m talking about the cabin you saucy bitch.  Is he good? Does he-”

“Claire! _No!-”_

“Send more cheese!”  Dean’s awake enough to harness an exhale for one sentence.  

“There’s bottled water under the sink!” calls Claire.

“Me call you!” you insist.  “Thank you! Buh-bye!”

You hang up and lay there for a few seconds, listening to the outdoors and judging the time by the brightness.  It feels as though Dean hasn’t let go of you since yesterday.

“Hey?” You twist back to look at him, more awake than you were seconds ago.  “We should check out that bath.”

Eventually he sucks the drool off his lip and unsmears his face to he can talk properly.  “Be an improvement over licking myself clean.”

Over the horizon of the pillow you can see one eye peek at you, and you both grin at each about over all the licked-clean pussy puns you don’t say.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This cabin is just _the best_ idea. It gives you solitude and space and time. Everything you need to figure out a few things. (Final part)

You’re on your third draft when you decide to delete it all and keep it safe: _“Heya, can I call you for a chat later today? Like about 11ish?”_  You send it through to Sam and take a breath.

“There’s waffle batter!”  Dean’s detoured via the kitchen on his way back from the bathroom.

“Oh yeah?”

Sam: _everything ok?_

“There’s a waffle iron!”

You: _Yes, we’re good, I just want to talk to you._

“Well hop to it, Puddin’,” you call. “Those breakfast treats ain’t gonna make themselves!”

Sam: _Cool.  Can do._

You: _Just when I’m dressed and fed_

Sam: _I get that.  Same here._

You:   _Why I never! You sly fox!  XD_

Dean props himself against the tallboy, slips his hands into his sweatpants pockets, and looks at you in your t-shirt and panties, sitting in the middle of the bed with the covers wrapped haphazardly around your lap.  “Just texting Sam,” you explain.  “Wanna let him know, but I’ll chat with him later.”

Dean nods upwards.  “Good idea.”

Sam: _Bitch please._

You giggle at Sam’s reply and toss your phone aside, not wanting to be rude, but Dean doesn’t seem to feel left out.  “What’s up?” you chirp.

Dean shakes his head.  “Nothin’.”

“You gettin’ that waffle iron all hot?”

The corner of Dean’s smile curls up, an eyebrow full of innuendo and instantly you know what he’s thinking.  

“Blerrrrgh!” you groan.  “No cheesy double-entendre before breakfast!”

“Wait, did you hear that?!” Dean stands up straight, glaring.

“Nope, didn’t need to!” You climb off the bed mimicking how you imagine he’d say, “No, but somethin’ is.”

Dean laughs and meets you halfway, sliding his arms around your waist and breathing in a morning-after with you.  “Can I just say that having you here, alone, with no check out time or place we have to be….”

“I know, I can’t even decide what to do with the day.”  Let alone your hands, which you thread around his waist too.  There’s just too much everything else to deal with while he’s shirtless.

Dean squishes his brow at you.  “Uh, what we _do_ is we cook waffles and have coffee and fresh pressed orange juice because they got one of those frikken things, too, and then we have a bath and check out the outdoors- No! We pack a picnic-”

“Cheeses.”

“We pack _all_ the cheeses and go for a walk and come back and read classic novels on the porch in the afternoon light and make dinner and then just…” His eyebrows go up.  And up… for no particular reason…

“Enjoy the privacy?”

“Exactly.”  Good save.  His smile twitches a bit and he looks at you for a few beats, coming to a decision before saying, “The telepathy isn’t coming back on.”

“No.”  You’d noticed that too.  “I’ll have to tweak the spell I think, if you want it off-on.  I’m still think 24/7 is too much.”  You rub your knuckles into your eye and end up covering your mouth for a watery yawn that makes you bend back and lean your thighs on his.  He pulls on your waist to help, lets a palm slide down over a cheek of ass.

“Okay, enough with the cute or we’ll get nothin’ done.  I think I found some smuggled maple syrup too,” he says and leads you into the kitchen by the hand.  “Let’s eat.”

…

Making breakfast had been a strange kind of flirt-based physical challenge.  Dean started off wrapped around you from behind, making you teeter from bench to cupboard. He’d rested his chin on your shoulder, his voice thrumming roughly into your muscle, and slapped your arm every time you tried to pour the batter.  After the third waffle you ducked out of his hold and piggy-backed him, wrapping a hand over his eyes and directing his arm while you gave instructions.  “Pour- STOP! Oh that one’s yours.”  And then you tried setting up and using the orange juicer, all four arms at once.

“You realise, I am not going to eat every meal hereafter on your lap.”  Although if every meal was here, on a couch, away from the world, with Dean, you’d cope.

“You realise,” he mumbles, sopping up more syrup with a piece of waffle and insisting you take another bite, “you have no say in this.”

He’s smug, or at least he tries to be when he grins up at you, loudly chomping around his food, but really he’s just plain happy.  You’ve got your fingers over your mouth, trying to keep the waffle tidy, while you shine from his affection.  He’s making you happy.  It’s the sort of moment backlit with a cornflake glow and he lets his head drop back, resting against your arm on the couch behind him.

You manage to get your lips together around your waffle. “Hey, um.” Speaking is a struggle at this point.  “I ‘hink… we should shave the bath for after.”

Dean frowns at you in curiosity, which is fair enough considering you’re both still fairly manky from all of last night’s effort.  You pass him a glass of freshly pulped OJ and he gulps a mouthful, working his lips and cheeks to clean his teeth.  “Ugh.  Nutritious.  After what?”

“After our walk. It’s just, I have a surprise and it might involve some dirt.”  You wipe the corners of your mouth for the umpteenth time because Dean feeds you with the delicate accuracy of a toddler.  

He thinks while he finishes his last bite and licks his lips, and he misses a bit, in the corner.  You lean down to kiss it away.  He really likes that.  “What kind of surprise?”

“Consider it a gift.”

“Huh, ‘kay.” Dean's tongue gives that corner a careful once-over while he looks at you in his lap.  “But have _you_ considered: two baths?”  

…

“Up here.”

The path had become overgrown some way back.  You’re only sure now that you’ve followed the curve of the mountainside long enough to be comfortably far from the track, into seclusion, but not lost in the kaleidoscopic birch forest.  A nicely sized patch of treeless ground sits a little way up the hill on your left.

You push logs aside with your feet and brush away a few piles of leaves so you can throw down the picnic blanket with a little clearance.  Dean puts the bag on the ground and you plonk yourself down.  “Cheeses pleases.”

“Beers m’dears.”

Upon a tea towel, food is arranged and a few short bottles are cracked.  “Wait up.”  Dean leaves you to load up a few crackers, while he shoves a larger log, one that’s quite soft at the ends, up to the edge of the blanket, then under the blanket, for something to rest against.

With your ankles crossed, you lean back and Dean sits likewise beside you.  He shuffles close, making you twist a little to fit under his arm.  You pass crackers with cheese, or antipasto, or dried fruit to his right hand, and he lets a beer bottle hang from his left, trapping your head every time he takes a sip.  The birds begin to ignore you.  The sunlight swims around in the air.  You think your brain might actually stop and look around for a while.

Once Dean’s turned away the food twice, and you’ve had your fill, you slip down a little and shift yourself so you can curl towards.  “How uncomfortable are you?”

“Not.”  He puts his beer in his right hand and hugs you close with cold fingers on your waist.

You close your eyes and breathe in fresh air over warm Dean.  “Everything matches.”

“Hmm? What does?”

“Your heart is slow,” you explain.  “And the sound of your lungs, it goes with the sounds around us.  Leaves, and trees,” you say, giving into your sleepy breath, and the rhyme, “and the breeze.”

Dean kisses your head, nothing more to add, and has another sip before kind of resting his head on yours, nose to chin.

It’s perfect here, except for the uncomfortable earth beneath your hip, and the awkward shape.  If you fall asleep you’ll need an emergency chiropractor.  “Hey, swap with me.”

“Swap what?”

“Lay down.” You push off his chest and pat your thigh and even though it’s effort, Dean’s all for it.

So much so that he clears away a few more pesky sticks under the blanket before settling in with his head on your thigh.  He even finishes his beer first.

Dean smiles up at you, and you smile back, smirks ready, but it’s dappley, and peaceful, and there’s no rush, no time to mind.  The blue above is clear and quiet and the leaves twinkle green-grey-white like they’re waving at you.

One by one, you draw a fingertip over each feature of Dean’s face - each eyebrow, down his nose, the edges of his lips (he tucks them away - too tickly), a figure-8 around his eyes - and smoothing down his hairline, making things feel nice.  He takes your hand, kisses your palm, and presses it between his hand and his chest.  You drag your other fingers through his hair and look at his long lashes on his cheek, seeing how his eyelids slow their twitching with each easy, long breath.  His breathing drops, his hand relaxes, …and then he starts to snore.  So you let him sleep for a little while.

Maybe you close your eyes for a while too, since his words seem to come out of nowhere.

“Gotta be the fluffiest scene I’ve ever been a part of,” he mutters, shifting his shoulders and hips.

“Oh, no,” you say blithely, “I’ll be hunting you later.  In the forest.  Brought m’gun.”

“Well, that escalated quickly.”

One deep breath, a quick rub on his chest, and you sit forward. “Okay, so would you like to see what animal I wish I’d given you?”

“Is this the surprise?” he asks, and when you nod back he says,  “Definitely.  Hit me.”

Dean stands up and readies himself for it - no questions asked, no hesitation. His faith in your ability makes you hold your breath still.  

You stand, too, and stand before him just beyond the edge of the blanket.  You hold his wrist and say the words, then move back to watch him change.  Only when he realises how low he is does he look down at himself.  He tries to stand on his hind legs to see his whole body, but that turns into into walking backwards.  Then he turns tight circles to look along himself until he’s sure.

_A black jaguar?!_

The telepathy works just like last night but you barely need it. With wide eyes and mouth agape, Dean’s cartoonishly delighted.   _A goddamn Jaguar?_ He jumps into the air and grabs the ground in glee.

 _Yye-illlll Christ calm down._ You almost hide behind a tree.

He starts bouncing, dashing from tree to tree, pushing off the trunks like he did as a smaller cat, testing out his agility and speed, then pouncing on small plants.  You smile at him skidding in the soft undergrowth, sprawling into a leafy mess, but once he’s found his feet he gallops over and lands dirty paws on your shoulders, gawping his great big black head in your face.   _This.  Is.  AWESOME!_

“Good,” you laugh. “I’m glad.”

He huge, and panting, but carefully he leans forward and sniffs around your cheek, little puffs tickling your skin, and picks a spot to drag the tip of his tongue in a scratchy, whiskery kiss.

“I was thinking,” you grunt, shifting your feet under his weight, “I might take a slow walk back to the cabin, and meet you there?”

The weight of his happy, donking nuzzle is near bruising. _You don’t mind cleaning up?_

“No, I expected to,” you tell him. “Go cat for a while.  Don’t get shot.”  

He climbs off, saying _Okay_ , with half a mind already on what he could do.

He bounds away, leaping over short trees and slipping over the curve of the hill in all of 3 seconds.

You pack up the leftovers and bottles and fold up the blanket.  The path appears right where you thought it would and as soon as you get a signal, you pull up Sam’s number.

…

“…so yeah.  It’s going okay so far.  I just didn’t like keeping a secret from you.”

“No, I appreciate it.”  Sam’s giving you his full attention at his end of the line.  Apparently Sarah is taking a shower at whatever hour this is.  “I think Dean’s right about keeping it with you.  I mean, it makes me a bit nervous.  You’re precious enough as it is.  And it’s not like- what’s that?”

_Y/N! Look at this!_

“Uh, something on TV.  One tick.”  You put your hand over the phone’s mic.  “Dean!  Shh!”

_No!  Look at this!  I caught it!  I literally caught it!_

Sam’s voice chirps from the phone. “Did I hear- was that a purr? Or a growl?”

“Yeah, I can see that,” you hush, “just let me finish.”  You’re trying not to smile but Dean keeps bouncing his front paws in the dirt like they’re on a mini-trampoline.  He has a squirrel in his mouth. “Sam, I gotta go.”

“U-huh.”  He’s suspicious. “So you done anything with that magic yet?”

“Nnnnnope. Noooo.”  You watch Dean lay the squirrel on the damp ground at your feet, and sit back proudly.  He drags his tongue over the back of his big paw, scrapes it along his upper teeth too, then blinks his bright eyes at you and pulls his mouth into enough of a smile that you can see the neat zigzags of his teeth.  It’s a slightly peculiar expression, what with all the fangs.  “No, we’re just doing regular cabin shit I guess.”

“I’ll see you Monday then.”

“Hope so.”

Sam ends the call and you tuck your phone into your back pocket before crouching down over the squirrel.  It looks very dramatic, rather mid-leap.  “You killed a squirrel for me?”

 _No, I didn’t kill it!_ Dean nudges it with a paw, but it doesn’t move.   _It’s alive…  Tastes like dirt._

You didn’t really plan on handling a squirrel, but there it lies.  “I think it’s in shock.”  

Dean nudges it again, with no change.  Carefully he picks it up in his jaws and takes it to the edge of the clearing, over near the woodshed, and places it beneath the foliage.  He walks back looking like oiled velvet, shoulders rolling with each step.  He’s gorgeous, strong and lithe.

“How you doing? You wanna change back?”

 _Not yet._ He’s headed for the front of the house and asks _Hang out on the porch for a while?_

You sling the backpack over your shoulder, catching up to him and he walks beside you, close enough you can slip your fingertips around his ears.  He curls his neck up to catch more, leaning his shoulder against your thigh as you traipse the wide leaf-littered path round the building.

The Impala shines in the early afternoon sun.  The backpack is light and slack and you drop it by the door before sitting on the ratty couch on the porch. (It’s really more of a long leather bench with a deep massive valley in the middle.)  Dean wipes his paws on the doormat, then comes around to the sofa, his whole length taking up the remaining seat when he hops up beside you.  

It’s such a riveting thing to have him like this.  He looks dangerous, built for killing, so lethal as a big cat, but he pushes his forehead against your cheek, threads his head under your chin and comes back over and over to drag his cheekbones along your jaw.  You turn and lean against the armrest and take his heavy paws on your shoulder, help him find where to put his feet so he can lay down on you and in the end you’ve got your legs up on the leather and he’s stretched out between them.

“Christ, you’re heavy.”

 _Hmmm_.  He doesn’t care.  He’s got his neck stretched over your shoulder and you’ve got one hand kneading the malleable skin around his throat, the other running up and down his ribs and belly. _I can’t believe we never thought of choosing a big cat. How long can this last?_

_Until you turn it off._

_Mmmmm-num-num-num-never._

You smile and cuddle, nuzzling into his fur and rubbing around his ears.  His purr is divine.

 _What are you grinnin’ about?_ he asks, having picked up on something you didn’t realise you were thinking.

Instead of explaining, you recall your point of view back in the forest clearing, and show him what he’d looked like bounding around the foliage.  You wrap your arms around his form like he’s some sumptuous body pillow, and Dean shows you what it was like for him - the vision and speed, how fast he could get to the peak of the hill, the strength and stretch in his legs, the tree climbing, the 5 minutes he’d lost trying to figure out how to get down from the tree climbing, and how many times he didn’t catch that damn squirrel.  

 _It’s a pretty amazing gift,_ Dean thinks to you, his tail tapping on the worn brown leather of the couch.

“So are you.”  

Somewhere in there he must’ve wanted to hug you back because, momentarily, at a time you couldn’t catch, the fur and whiskers disappeared and his ear was soft against yours. His arms push around your waist, and he turns his head so he can kiss your neck.  You hug him back, thread your fingers into his hair and enjoy his shape again….

“UuuhIdon’treallybendthisway.”

“Let’s go have that bath,” you sigh.

Dean pushes himself up and climbs off the seat.  He offers his hand to help you stand, his tethered gaze so dedicated you barely feel your own weight.  

Inside the front door, you hold onto his forearms to balance and toe off your boots. Dean does his, too.  “How about you see what’s for dinner and I’ll run the bath?” you suggest.

“Sure thing,” he says.  He kisses you on the head before padding over to the fridge, cracking a beer and leaning on the open door to assess the goods.

…

The bath is rather epic.  It’s white enamel, high at both ends, and deep enough to bathe a baby elephant.  The brass taps are in the middle and you’re trusting the whole upgrade included the hot water service too.

Out of the shmancy stuff in the cupboard, you rightly skip the effervescent bombs and fairy fart bubble gels and discover a bath milk that smells nice enough.  So, one quick shower and you’ve shleffed off the sweat and sex and rinsed your hair, feeling rather elegant in a massive bath towel.

The faucet pressure is good, the temperature perfectly hot, and the milk pours in clear and turns white in the water, curling out in delicate fractals and wisping through the depth. You sit on the rim and hold your fingers under the spout, feeling the steam furl up under your arm and warm your skin.  

It’s not something you ever thought you’d be doing; drawing a bath to share with Dean while wrapped in a fluffy towel in a secluded cabin.  There’s barely a part of the weekend you could ever have predicted.  Dean’s setting up dinner.  Your phone hasn’t beeped in 8 hours (could be bad reception; don’t care).  You walked in the woods and nothing bled.  You’re sharing a bath with Dean.

You’re with Dean.

When you get back to the bunker, it’s going to be different, you think.  You’ll probably go back to your own rooms, still, and probably be close, maybe intimate when it’s private, but this lazing around, lounging on each other, the incidental contact and the way he hooks the loops of your waistband or rests his hand on your hip, that’ll go.  Surely he’ll distance himself a little back where you’re pretty much at work.  Maybe, when all the ammo’s checked and the stitches are done and the tender things iced, maybe you’ll meet him in his room…?

The water beats on your fingers and you visualise all the ways you might be able to reach him when the hunts are demanding, or scary, or fast.  Messages, touches, eye contact, food.  Anything that lets him know you’re here and handy, but not trying to distract him from getting things done.  Because he will distance himself, and he does beat himself up sometimes; emotional deprivation is his flavour of self-harm, and you’ve never approved.  It’s him and you and all, so that’s what he’s getting.  You and all.  

The bath fills, the water pummelling your fingertips still and you gaze at nothing, daydreaming conviction about showing this man, who you’ve wanted for so long, who’s finally in your arms, that you mean it, with everything…

Maybe not everything.  

Out here, soothed by forest and coddled with solitude, it’s not just peaceful… there’s a context of harmony, for this magic, for you as you are now.  But in real life, there’s darkness, and threat, and loss, and things that are too precious to measure.  You can feel how you might take little liberties to get what you need and keep what you have, and how, after a while, a little more might not seem like much….

When Dean opens the door, you’ve only just sunk into the water and sighed away approximately three hunts worth of tension.  It’s quiet for a moment, though.  “You okay?”

“Uh yep, just couldn’t see you for a moment.”  He closes the door and drops something, clothes you guess.  “Just gonna take a quick shower.”

“Sure thing.”

He starts the water and talks loudly over the rush.  “There’s a pre-made lasagna! So I just put out some things and did something with- okay, so don’t give me any shit for this, it’s just that it’ll go to waste if we don’t use it.  I made a salad.”

“Out of what?!”  He made a frikken salad.

“Green things.  Mostly.  And some tomatoes.  I dunno, it looked like Sam would take a picture though.”

“I’ll be taking a picture!”

“The hell you will,” he scolds, scrubbing at something. “One moment of weakness and you’re posting it all over social media. I’ll be tarnished!”

The water turns off already, fresh steam billowing along the ceiling, and he’s standing beside the bath before you can open your eyes.  He’s glistening, clutching a towel around his hips.  “How mysterious.”  He means the opaque water.

“Oh yeah, I’m all about keeping things from you,” you smirk.  “Get in.  It’s _divine_.’

You close your eyes again, pretending it’s not on purpose so he doesn’t have to worry about what’s under the towel, and wait till you can feel his legs by yours.

Dean settles down, a crooked-slack smile giving away how much he likes it and he starts to lean back- but pauses, then leans forward, peering at you like he’s listening to a faraway noise, or trying to remember….  He sits up and grabs the tub rim, looking like he might get out again.

“What’s wrong?” You sit up a bit, too.  The tub’s long enough that his legs and yours only overlap to the knees.

“Nothing. I-” He swallows and licks his lips, his gaze searching the bath.  “Did you put something in the water?”

“Just a bath milk,” you answer.  “I think it’s an oil though.”

“No, something else.”

“What, like magic?”  You can’t even imagine what sort of magic thing you’d add to a bath.  Make the clean last a week? A fragrance that would make him dream of you?  “No? Pretty sure no.  Are you okay? I’m okay.”

“Yeah…” But he’s still trying to figure it out, tilting his forehead your way when he says “There’s something you want me to know? Have I done something wrong?”

“What? No! I- I- shit.” You’re leaning forward now too, the water level at your armpits and you’re struggling to crystalise your suspicions.  “Maybe… you know I was thinking about something I wanted to do when I ran the bath.  I had my hand under the tap and the water ran over my fingers.  Maybe I-”

“What was it?”

“Nothing bad.”  How do you explain this without undoing the effect? It’s not that it’s a surprise, but it might sound like a task, once it’s said aloud.  “Oh man, you know, it’s a frikken Me Soup.  You’re getting my emotions through the water.”

Dean’s expression falls blank, a little shocked, and he starts looking at the distance between you like some alphabet noodles might start spelling out the facts.

“You know what, we don’t have to do this.  Don’t worry about it,” you start to move forward and lean over the rim for your towel. “It’s too weird-”

“Nonono, don’t- It’s not _weird_.”

You squint at him.

“Not for us.” He waves it away. “Don’t go.  It’s fine.  I’m not- I’m not uncomfortable,” he says.  “I was just surprised, is all.”

You pull your arms back into the bath and take hold of the rim.  His ankles sit either side of your hips.  “You didn’t look comfortable.”

“I know, I’m sorry.  Just,” he leans forward, one hand ushering you to the other, “come here and I’ll explain.”

So you take the offer and he pulls you through the water, turning you so your back is to his chest.  Then your waist is pressing up inside his thighs, his chest is under your shoulders and his arms are keeping you from floating away.  Stubble scrapes over your ear and his breath feels cool against your damp neck, all the crisp sounds of shifting skin and watery gaps so close in the curve of the bath.

Dean kisses under your ear and hugs you snug.  You can feel everything.  The softness of his belly against your back, and the hairy softness below that, a noticeable chub going on, too.  The bass of his voice has a lovely hollow hum to it here.  “All that talk last night about choosing and sacrifice,” he starts.

The heat seeps through your muscles and into your bones while you wait for him to figure out what to say.  It’s hard though, being patient.  You lean your head against his jaw, wishing he could send you his thoughts again.

Then, something else is there.  A different kind of heat.  It feels blue, somehow, and when you open your eyes again the water seems to have taken on a grey hue.  Dean’s squeezing his arms every now and then, swallowing and working his mouth like he might find the words are under his tongue.

“You’re afraid,” you say quietly, like a prompt, and Dean’s sigh breaks from his throat at you beating him to the point.  To that point specifically.

“…That’s not what I was going to say.”

“But you are.”

“I’m always _afraid_.”

“But that’s when it’s hardest to reach you!”  You don’t mean just the fear, but the worry and the duty he takes on.  “If we always had the telepathy, I suspect that’s when you’d turn it off.”

You feel him harden, a sharp huff of indignation and guilt.

Okay.  So you back off, and this time you actually try to affect him, imagining your care permeating the water around you both, white and pure, and protective.  Dean’s arms get tighter and tighter.

“You love me.”  His chest fills and drops beneath you, into a moment of silence.  You tilt your head again, nudging his chin, because it’s true.  “That’s what I felt when I got in and I was um, it wasn’t clear what it was straight away.  It was like you’re just saying my name.”

You nod.  The water seems to have tinted back to its milky cream.  Maybe it was only your eyes adjusting.  Maybe it’s all make-believe in your mind.

“You’re so powerful.” Dean’s words are whispered with a harshness that makes your heart tighten.  “So powerful already.  For a long time I’ve been afraid of losing you to a monster, or a bullet.  And it just- you don’t even know you’re doing it now.  I felt that just then, you know.  How you want to wrap me up all safe.”  Your heart thumps as he talks.  You think you should be able to see it move the water.  It feels like he might say the things you’ve been keeping yourself from saying aloud.  The size of it, of what you could use to protect him, and Sam, and if he actually says it out loud there’ll be no limit to your guilt.  Because you have imagined making it bigger, bigger than all the threats you’ve met before, just to be sure, and the idea still makes your mind lean, almost tipping over, a swell of hope blurring your sensibilities.  You feel a little seasick with temptation.  You’re sure you shouldn’t wonder such things.

Nothing has made you feel more distant, or more othered.  You are different now.

“I can feel your fear, too. I won’t lose you to you, Y/N.”

You can’t help but breathe a little harder, feel the ache of salt at the back of your tongue.  It feels like he might say the things you’ve kept yourself from hoping.  

Dean’s arms won’t wrap any tighter.  He’s not keeping you from anything; he is holding you here.  “You understand? I’m not letting you go.  None of us will.”

You swallow and nod, everything held tight in this lazy shape.

“I won’t lose you to this.  I won’t lose you.”

It feels rude to not face him now, and although you don’t know what to say, you still pull yourself forward and turn around, sitting on your knees and leaning your hands on the bottom of the tub to keep warm and modest.  “I know you won’t.”  You don’t know, really, and shake your head at the lie. There’s a lot between becoming a cat and going supernova to protect your family, but that may only be time and it never looks that long at the other end-

“Hey, it doesn’t matter what happens. We will be okay,” he assures you, his warm hands on your arms.  “You’re better at this than you think you are.”

Maybe.  “You won’t lose me, because I love you.”  You look him in the eye, as honestly and openly as you can and call on all your conviction.  “I can stay true to what you want.  I can.  I’ll listen to what you want.”  You lean in, a hand on his chest to take your weight as you kiss him, thudding his head against the enamel.  “I can follow you,” you tell him, letting your lips catch on his.  “You’re my north, because I know you love me, too.”  You press your lips to his, full and fat with emotion, and hope.

There is a definite moment, a cold quarter-second, where you think you’ve presumed too much, but then every doubt you have is smothered between his hands, his palms over your ears, holding you against him as he kisses and kisses.

He cups your head and tilts you, presses a hand between your shoulder blades to pull you close, and you slide your knees away, letting him curve you against him, pushing aside water that seems to have regained its heat.  “I do.”  Dean turns into the corner of the tub and you wrap an arm around his shoulders to help steady yourself against him.  Everything slides weightlessly under the surface.  “Do you feel it? ‘Cause you’re right.”  He presses his forehead to yours, talking over the squeaks of skin against enamel.  You let yourself float and be held.  “That’s what I’s afraid of, but now that you’ve said it, I don’t know why…”  Dean lifts his head to look at you, tidying tendrils that’ve stuck to your steam-wet skin.  “…why the hell would I keep from telling you I love you?”

Again your breath is caught in your chest.  “Well, it’s a big deal.”

“But it makes you so happy.” He looks sorry, but you’re smiling, soon bringing the dimples to his cheeks too.

“You feel that?” you ask quietly.  “My happy?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“You feel it in my waters?”

Dean tucks his lips to keep from laughing.  “That’s a little gross.”

“Oh please,” you giggle.  “Everything to do with my waters is because-a you.”

“Still, quite gross,” he says.  “We’re in here to get clean.”

“Lies,” you whisper and push your fingers into his hair to pull yourself up and kiss him again.  “Lying liar.”

“Oh you know me too well,” he smirks, skimming a thumb over your cheek.  “You know I’m afraid, you know my favourite itchy spots, you know I love you….”

“Yeah, I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> The spell, in case you're curious:
> 
> Witch: I beg you to walk (be) with me, maintain me, hear me. I will shield you and keep you. I will be your witch. For seven days.
> 
> Familiar: I am with you. I shield you, maintain you, hear you. I come when you call. I am your familiar spirit. You are my witch. For seven days.


End file.
